


Not Yet

by mjwho



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camping, Dragons, Eventual Sex, F/M, Flirting, Friendship/Love, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 53,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjwho/pseuds/mjwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War is over, everyone is moving on. The future is, indeed, looking brighter than it has in years. Just like everyone else, Hermione is making plans, breathing easy, trying to let go of the past. Then she suffers a catastrophic loss and goes into hiding again, this time to seek vengeance for her loss. Only to stumble across a Potions master the world thought was dead. Will they recognize each other? NOT your typical SSHG. </p><p>Rated Mature for a short scene of violence in the first chapter, and possibly more in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Not Yet” will pretty much follow canon from the books, picking up four years from the end of the War. The two biggest exceptions will be the reappearance of Severus (yay!) and a huge disregard for the Epilogue (And the Cursed Child, probably, although I haven't read it yet). Of course, changes for these two will cause a whole bunch of little exceptions, which is good because otherwise I wouldn’t have this story (squee!!).  
> I’ll explain everything when there’s a deviation. Don’t worry!  
> There will be no Ron bashing. I love Ron. I would’ve been friends with him.
> 
> ***Disclaimer: I really think everyone knows that I’m not JK, and that I didn’t invent Harry or his world. I’m just using them to have a little fun, and as an excuse to put off my own regular writing for a while and stretch my creative muscles. I receive no compensation for this story other than lovely reviews.***
> 
> Rating note: This story is rated M for the first chapter and then possible later chapters. In other words, this FIRST chapter contains a scene of violence that could be disturbing to some. You have been warned.
> 
> (This work is cross-posted on fanfiction.net under the same name. I'll try to get it caught up here as quickly as I can.)

Hermione breezes through the front doors of Hogwarts. Up the grand staircase. Turn left. Behind a tapestry. Up a secret staircase onto the third floor. Then right down the passage. The steps to the Defense Against the Dark Arts rooms are seared into her memory, like a burn caused by a hot iron. And she would never be rid of the scar.

  
Does she want to? Oh yes. Sometimes. But happy things happened here, too. She mustn’t forget . . .

  
But today she wants to. Only a little farther. Then the visit will be over. Then she can get out.

  
“Hey Hermione, your robes billow out around you just like . . . ” Ron stops mid-sentence, laughing a little. He’s walking right behind her.

  
She cringes, slowing her pace. Not because she knows Ron is thinking of Professor Snape, but because she forgot her fiancé was even there with her. Today she feels like being alone, more so than usual.

  
“You can slow down, you know,” he says.

  
“Oh _Ron_! Your legs are longer than mine! Keep up.”

  
Ron gives a howl of joy and runs ahead of her, practically skipping down the hall. “We can’t get points taken away anymore, Hermione!” he shouts.

  
Hermione smiles, her amusement temporarily overcoming her foul mood. That’s why she loves Ron so much. He always brings her out of her slumps, even if just for a few moments. When Ron stops and turns at the end of the hall, she straightens her face. More out of a desire to maintain her focus than to hurt his feelings.

  
“Aww . . . Hermione,” he says when she reaches him. “There’s good things here, too.”

  
Echoing her earlier thoughts.

  
He’s stronger than she’d ever thought anyone could be. The humor and boy-like tendencies keep the despair at bay. She hopes he never gives that up. Hermione puts a hand on his arm, kisses his cheek. “I know.”

  
They avoid certain areas on purpose. No need to go looking for bad memories, especially the hall where Fred . . . Returning to Hogwarts always results in a heady mix of emotions that leave her dizzy and at a loss about how to feel about . . . everything.

  
At the door to the old DADA rooms, they pause. A silent nod. Hermione casts a nonverbal Alohomora, and the door clicks open. The school, again run by the aging Minerva McGonagall, and its trustees have finally set up the old classroom as a memorial to the fallen teachers and students who had died at Hogwarts as a result of Voldemort’s reign of terror. The room hasn’t been touched since the Restoration of the castle. The door remains locked only to serve as a reminder that the room should not be entered carelessly.

  
Hermione and Ron step in. The room looks the same. Stone walls, large windows with dark curtains. Even the student desks face the large wooden desk at the front of the room.

  
But it’s the long golden bench underneath the windows that they’re drawn to. It’s simple. That it’s made of gold is its only unique feature. No ornate carvings or scrolls. Just clean lines and straight legs. It’s what lays on the top of it that’s important.

  
A personal piece from each person. Just an artifact, really, a sentimental reminder that the fallen lived a full life. And was still remembered. The table is full of rings, necklaces, scarves, glasses, quills, watches, and other trinkets. A couple of teddy bears. A china tea set.

  
“Every time I come here,” Hermione says, “I think this will be the last one.”

  
“I think it is, actually,” says Ron with a sniff. He reaches into his robes and pulls out a toy Matchbox car. A little Ferrari, red with yellow flames. “Took forever to convince Colin’s parents to let me have something.”

  
Colin Creevey died at the Battle of Hogwarts. His muggle parents had nearly died of shock at the news their older son had been killed.

  
Ron places the car on the bench, then taps his wand once on the top. It glows golden along with the bench. A hidden list of names, revealed only when the bench was touched, appears on the table-top, etched into the gold. Then the little car stops glowing, and so does the bench.

  
Hermione grabs Ron’s hand. Maybe this really is the last one. She glances over the table, not expecting to return here for a long time. She recognizes each reminder, even if she has not placed it here herself. While she’s looking, Ron lets go of her hand to walk over to the teacher’s desk at the front. “Hey, remember Neville’s boggart? Bloody hell, Snape was so mad.”

  
Hermione doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the memory of Professor Snape dressed like Neville’s grandmother.

  
“It happened right here,” he says. Hermione tracks Ron out of the corner of her eye. He flourishes his wand without casting a spell.

  
She smiles. Ron is lost in his memory, a goofy grin on his face. Maybe she should chastise him for being glib inside the memorial, but isn’t that what this room’s for—to remember good things? She turns back to perusing the table. Her eyes fall on the china set. Small, delicate roses painted on a white background. It belonged to Charity Burbage, the Muggle studies professor that Voldemort murdered.

  
She hears Ron’s footsteps cross the room to the opposite wall.

  
“Hey, I found something!” he says. “Must’ve fallen off the bench and rolled over here.”

  
Hermione half-turns toward him, her eyes still captured by the intricate rose pattern on the teapot. “Things can’t just fall off the table, Ron,” she calls over her shoulder. “Probably got knocked off.”

  
“I bet Peeves did it. Damn poltergeist. Why don’t they have a sticking charm on the bench?”

  
“No idea,” she answers, pulling her wand from her sleeve. She should cast one. Surely no one will mind?

  
A bright light and then the room darkens. A dark cloud descends over her, bringing with it a deafening roar and a shriek of pain. The windows shatter outward.

  
Hermione throws her hands up, casting a shield against the cloud. It deflects away from her, and she turns. “Ron! Are you okay?”

  
Another shriek of pain. Ron’s yelling, shouting. Calling her.

  
Hermione’s heart pounds into her throat, and she runs for him even though she can’t see him. She stumbles over a student desk, her foot catching on the iron leg and she almost goes down. In a wave of panic, she waves her wand and the desks part before her like the Red Sea before Moses. Several of them fly through the air. More windows shatter.

  
She tears through the gap, straight for Ron.

  
But she can’t see him in the smoke. She coughs and covers her mouth with her robes, casting another spell to clear the room. The cloud swishes away.

  
Now she can’t hear him.

  
“RON!” she screams. Where is he?

  
There, lying on the floor.

  
_Ron_.

  
“No!” In a moment she’s kneeling at his side, holding his head, looking for injuries. His robes are covered with blood. She follows the trail to his arm—his hand has been blown off. Blood spurts from his stump. She uses her wand to mend the shredded skin, to stop the bleeding so she can get him up the the hospital wing.

  
The bleeding stops at her command. She turns, slapping Ron’s face to wake him.

  
He doesn’t respond.

Hermione shakes him harder, then points her wand at his chest and says, “ _Ennervate_. Ron! _Ron_!”

  
Ron doesn’t move.

  
She flits her eyes around his body, looking for more wounds.

  
Her eyes land on his chest. It’s not moving. His heart was just beating—the blood on his arm. Her hands fall to his throat, looking for a pulse. But instead of finding smooth, youthful skin on his neck, her hands sink into a wrinkled, fleshy mass.

  
“Oh please. Ron. Oh please. _No you don’t_.”

  
Hermione tears open the high collar of his robes.

  
And jumps back.

  
His neck is shriveled, like it died years ago and the skin mummified over the top of it.

  
“Nooooo!” she screams, her hands going to his other wrist to find a heartbeat there.

  
Nothing.

  
Hermione wails a simultaneous cry for help and cry of grief. For she can already see she is too late. Ron isn’t moving. She had watched his last heartbeat. No one will be able to help him. She lays her head on his chest and sobs, not caring that whatever curse he encountered could still be present on his clothing.

  
No.

  
She screams again. Something tears in her throat, ripping through her vocal cords. Someone. Anyone. She needs to send a patronus, but the happy memory required to summon it is gone. At this moment, she has nothing.

  
Hermione’s body shakes as she gathers Ron in her arms, keeping her eyes on his freckled face, his orange hair. Her Ron, dearest Ron. He fought a troll for her.  
They were supposed to get married. And grow old together. She isn't ready to lose him.

  
Not yet.

  
_Not yet_.


	2. Chapter 2

Hands are tugging at her. Voices raised in alarm, but they are muted in Hermione’s ears. She won’t let go of Ron’s body. Finally large hands pry her away and carry her upstairs to the hospital wing. The crying is behind her. No, with her. Whoever is carrying her is weeping big, splashy tears. She feels like a limp doll in his arms.

“Hagrid,” she manages. Her throat hurts. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“S’alright, Hermione. We’re gonna take good care ’o him.”

“He shouldn’t be left alone.”

“He’s not alone. The Headmistress is with him, and—,” a huge sob tumbles out of Hagrid’s mouth, and he can’t finish his sentence.

.

..

.

The rest of the week goes by in a haze of panic and horror. Hermione remembers being laid on a hospital bed and Madam Pomfrey giving her something to help her calm down.

She doesn’t want to calm down.

Ron was . . .

Then the never-ending questions. The aurors pack into the hospital wing, all vying for a chance to satisfy their curiosity. Of course, some of them knew Ron. He’d been working toward becoming an auror himself.

What happened? What did the item look like? Where was it in the room? Did the cloud have a particular odor?

Hermione tries to answer them. She really does.

Seeing Harry is the worst part.

He meets her at Hogwarts.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” Hermione says.

“It’s not your fault, Hermione.” 

Harry throws his arms around her and sobs until they both are sitting on the floor in a heap, holding each other and trying not to say anything to make the other start crying again.

Why didn’t she act faster? She could have saved him.

The Weasleys arrive shortly to take Ron home. She can’t face them. But Molly hunts her down and pulls her into a tight hug and cries into her shoulder. All Hermione wants to do is run. They refuse to let her go anywhere.

.

..

.

The next week, after the funeral, the aurors visit The Burrow to report that the curse on the golf ball in the memorial room was indeed powerful dark magic. Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt is there, too, watching Hermione and Harry as they listen to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement explain the investigation.

“. . . The golf ball wasn’t even supposed to be there. It hadn’t been brought in as tribute to one of the fallen. So we’re looking for a powerful wizard who had access to Hogwarts . . .”

Hermione already knows this. She knows every trinket on that bench and who it belonged to. She elbows Harry, sitting close beside her. Ginny sits on his other side, his arm around her. Hermione elbows Harry, and he gives her a look.

Shacklebolt notices and clears his throat. The Head stops speaking.

“Harry,” Shacklebolt says, “you’re practically already an auror, but I wish to caution you—”

Harry squeezes Ginny’s shoulders and Hermione’s hand, then stands. He’s so tall now, Hermione thinks. And broad-shouldered. He’s been a man for sometime—he’s had to be—but now he carries himself like one, too. 

“With all due respect, Kingsley,” Harry says, a note of anger in his voice, “I’m not going to just stand by while someone else does the work. Ron deserves more than that.”

Shacklebolt nods. “I wouldn’t expect you to. But I do expect that we run this through the right way. No charging off on your own for vengeance.”

Hermione huffs. They turn to her. Shacklebolt knows better than to think they won’t do everything in their power to make sure the murderer pays for the life he has taken. She shakes her head.

Shacklebolt continues, “Since school’s not in session, that narrows it down considerably. Unfortunately with the castle almost empty, it also decreases the likelihood that the individual would have been seen.”

Hermione sneers. “The _individual_? _Murderer_ , you mean.”

“We don’t know that’s what was meant to happen.”

Hermione stands. “Did you really just say that? Of course that’s what the psycho meant to happen!”

“She’s right, Shacklebolt,” Ginny says. “Why else would the murderer have put it there in _that_ room? A room where small, inconsequential objects are out on display for anyone to touch?”

An argument breaks out. Hermione looses track of who’s speaking. Her heart hurts. _Hurts_. She knows the grief is in her head, but the pain in her chest is _real_.

Harry is shouting now. Molly and Ginny are crying. Shacklebolt’s losing his cool. Bill and Fleur and Charlie and Percy and George are getting involved, too. Hermione pushes past them all to get some breathing room, but the shouting can’t be ignored.

“ENOUGH!” Arthur shouts over the top of them. But no one is listening.

The longer they stand here and argue, the farther away the murderer could be. She wants to press her hands to her ears like a little girl. Instead, she draws her wand and silences them all with a loud bang that shakes the rafters of the house above them.

They all turn to her.

“That. Is. Enough,” she gasps. They are staring. Molly begins weeping afresh. “I need . . .,” Hermione begins. But she really doesn’t know what she needs. She turns and walks out.

Her feet carry her through to the garden without her thinking too much about it. They’re all family here. Harry will be marrying Ginny. Hermione was going to marry Ron and get to be a Weasley, part of the best family she’d ever known. Now that isn’t going to happen. 

They are suffering, too. She knows this. But there’s something about grief that makes her feel so alone, no matter how many others are with her. How are they going to catch the killer when they are all so, so broken?

Harry’s the one who comes after her. He stands beside her at the edge of the garden, looking out over a Muggle field. “It’s not fair, Hermione,” he says. “We made it through _everything_. Death Eaters, Voldemort, the War, and Ron’s taken away by a random curse?”

Hermione nods. Guilt washes over her. She should have looked over at Ron when he was speaking to her. She should have been able to counteract the curse. The fact that she couldn’t only serves to remind her that she hasn’t studied hard enough. Hasn’t learned more.  She isn’t powerful enough yet to stop everything, even after all she’s been through.

And now her best friend is dead.

Harry seems to know what she’s thinking; he’s looking at her with concern. “You can’t know everything, Hermione.”

But she can. Dumbledore would have been able to save Ron. Snape would have, too. He was just as powerful as Dumbledore in the end. Hermione should be, too. Her desire for knowledge wells up inside her, mixing with her grief. 

Never again.

She turns to Harry and hugs him, hard. “I love you,” she whispers in his ear. Then she steps back, turns on her heel, and disapparates.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_(Six months later… Christmas, 2003)_

Hermione slides between the dark shelves, holding her lit wand aloft so she can read the spines of the books. The hood of her black cloak threatens to slide off her head, and she tugs it back up, all the way over her forehead.

Charmed ladders hover in each section of this Italian library. She pulls one to her and begins to climb it. The books whisper and mutter. Some of them are older than the library itself, which is saying something. Wooden shelves creak beneath the weight of the books. No doubt they are held up by magic, as well.

She climbs and climbs, pausing at each shelf to get a look at its spines before continuing. She’s at giant’s eye level before she sees it: _Dark Arts for Healing._

Crammed in between two bigger books, the spell book resists her efforts to pull it from its place. Hermione summons it with her wand instead. It’s surprisingly heavy, but other than that, there’s nothing remarkable about the book itself. Black leather cover, gold lettering. The pages are old and made of parchment instead of paper. Unlike the other books around it, it’s free from dust. Someone else must have just handled it.

Hermione opens it while still on the ladder, flipping through its pages, scanning spells and potions that make her stomach lurch. She blanches at the page containing a very life-like woodcut of a naked man hanging by his wrists above a cauldron. Judging by the way his face is twisted in agony, he doesn’t look like he’s the one being healed. Hermione pauses just long enough to see the word “Muggle” hand-printed below the woodcut. Definitely not the one being healed, then.

Still, the book is invaluable. She’s already exhausted books of traditional Healing practices. What if she ever needs to use an untraditional one? Although she would certainly stop short of sacrificing a Muggle. Dark wizards wouldn’t, though . . .

Hermione looks below her and down the aisle, checking that she is truly alone. Then she taps the book to reveal if it’s hexed against thievery. It is, of course. She spends the next few minutes muttering various incantations over it and tapping it with her wand. Eventually, silvery smoke rises from the pages and lingers in the air above her. She vanishes it.

Breaking these kinds of hexes has become her specialty. Not that she would admit that to just anyone. She checks again that no one’s watching, then slides the book under her cloak and into her old charmed, beaded purse.

A small, regretful kind of thrill passes through her as she leaves the wizarding library. One more book for her collection. Outside, she blinks in the sunlight. The Colosseum commands the view in front of her. Bells ring out from a church somewhere. If only she had time to visit. But no, another library awaits. Before leaving the protection of the library’s door, she casts a Disillusionment Charm over herself. 

Her stomach rumbles. How long has it been since she’s eaten? The book in her purse excites her. She’ll need to gather some ingredients if she’s going to try some of those potions. And find an open area in which to practice the spells. She passes several food stands, forgetting about the pain in her stomach.

She can eat later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing from readers. Please don't hesitate to review this or any chapters in this work. :)


	4. Chapter 4

_(6 months later…)_

Hermione sits at a center table at the Three Broomsticks, eyeing the door. Madam Rosmerta squeezes between empty tables, toward her.

“Another Butterbeer, love? Something stronger?”

Hermione shakes her head.

“Don’t remember seeing you here before. Where yeh from?” she says conversationally. 

“London.” Hermione looks up at her, giving Rosmerta a full view of her face. But she’s not recognized. Excellent.

When Hermione doesn’t offer any more information, Rosmerta takes her cue and checks on the two other customers sitting in a booth on the other side of the Inn. Then she moves behind the counter into the back room.

The place looks like it always has. Same dusty, cozy atmosphere. Same dark corners. Not as a dark as the Hogs Head, though. Good. A real test this time. Hermione never knew Rosmerta very well, but she’s encouraged the woman didn’t recognize her.

The front door bangs open, bringing with it warm summer sunshine. The two guests in the booth start a little and look up. Then they give silent squees of delight when they recognize the man who stands in the doorway. But Harry Potter only pauses long enough to scan the inside. He sees the three patrons, none of whom he recognizes, and strides through the door. He makes his way to the bar, passing Hermione without a glance. He’s tired, Hermione thinks, and thinner than last she saw him.

But Harry would have spoken to her if he’d recognized her. She smiles. Mission accomplished. Well, almost. Never one to do anything halfway, Hermione won’t be satisfied until she’s actually spoken to Harry without being recognized.

“Harry!” Rosmerta shrieks when she comes out front. She rushes around the bar to squeeze him in a tight hug. Hermione snorts into her Butterbeer. Harry doesn’t try too hard to fight her off—he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. But Hermione sees that his patience is already running thin today.

“Firewhiskey,” Harry says when Rosmerta finally lets go.

A very rough day, then. (But then, that’s to be expected, on the anniversary of his best mate’s death). Harry’s not much of a drinker—leaves him feeling too exposed. A pang of regret shoots into Hermione’s stomach, and once again she feels like a traitor for abandoning him. He’s alone. Well, no, he has Ginny. But his best friends are gone. First Ron, then Hermione. Maybe she should pull him aside and tell him.

 _Don’t give in now. He’ll forgive you one day_. A sob rises up through her throat before she can stop it. She quickly grabs her bottle of Butterbeer to hide it, even though it’s empty. Harry turns from the bar with his drink, his eyes landing on Hermione.

He’s making his way over.

Hermione steels herself, pushing away her thoughts. If she can pass this test, she’s really done it.

“Everything alright, miss?” Harry asks.

“Yes, thank you. Just choked on my drink.” She maintains eye contact. “You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry nods.

“I thought you were an Auror now.”

“I am.”

“Then what are you doing all the way out here?”

Harry shrugs. “I had some business at Hogwarts. Saying goodbye to a friend.” His face contorts ever so slightly. The line between his eyebrows deepens.

Hermione knows this. She knew he’d be here, taken a chance that he’d come to the Three Broomsticks. She has so many questions she wants to ask him. Every one of them would give her away. Why isn’t Ginny with him? Maybe he wanted to go up to the castle alone. What did he place in the room as a memorial to Ron?

She wants to grab Harry and tell him who she is, to hold him, to have him hold her, but . . .

“Would you like to sit?” she gestures to the chair across from her.

“Can’t.” He drains the Firewhiskey, grimacing at the way it burns the back of his throat. “Got to be somewhere.”

“Harry . . .” she begins.

Harry looks up from his glass, surprised, maybe, at the affection in her voice.

_Don’t tell him. Don’t do it. He can’t know what you’re doing. He won’t leave you alone if he does. And then he’ll be in danger, too._

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Hermione smiles, desperately trying to hold onto her resolve. “For taking care of everybody.”

Embarrassed, he nods at the strange woman before him. His eyes search hers, then her face. But Hermione has changed herself well. Hair dyed a darker brown—almost black—and permanently straightened. It’s shorter, too, barely touching her shoulders. Her nose has been transfigured. It’s a little less round than it was before. Her freckles are gone. Eyes a different color—hazel instead of brown. And she’s lost weight, her face thinner than it’s ever been, even when she and Ron and Harry were living off of nothing in the forest. Small, subtle changes make the most impact. She looks like someone he knows, but not enough.

Hermione continues to sit at the table long after Harry leaves. She’s doing the right thing. She knows it. 

..

 

( _3 weeks later…_ )

.

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_Happy birthday! The gift I’m sending is something I picked up while in France. Sorry I’m not there to celebrate with you. Next year, I will be. Promise._

_If you want me there._

_Perhaps then I will be able explain everything._

 

_Love,_

_Hermione_

 

_PS Don’t bother trying to find me using this owl. I’ve already made sure he can’t be traced._

_PPS Any leads?_

_**********_

_Hermione,_

 

_Thanks for the cufflinks. Ginny thinks the lion’s face on them looks just like I do when I’m angry._

_Hope to see you before my next birthday, though. The wedding is the end of this year, right before Christmas. We want you there._

_I saw someone the other day at the Three Broomsticks who reminded me of you. I’d been up to Hogwarts, to leave Ron’s memento—a chocolate frog. Maybe I could’ve left something else, but my first real memory of Ron is eating chocolate frogs on the train to Hogwarts our first year._

_And you don’t have to explain anything, if you don’t want._

_Come home, Hermione._

 

_Love,_

_Harry_

 

_PS No leads. Not one effing thing in over a year. Despite the fact that the Ministry has left no stone in Britain unturned. And I’ve followed every trail from here to Greenland and on to America. Nothing came of any of it._

Hermione’s tears splash the parchment as she reads Harry’s letter over again. And again. She’d received it just before leaving Britain. The parchment was already worn and soft from being handled so frequently. When Hermione finally finishes it, she casts a drying spell over it, rolls it up, and places it inside her beaded purse, making sure to place it on a shelf she conjured there.

A bird chirps in the tree above. She looks up, feeling a sense of renewed purpose. Sunlight filters through the leaves, bringing with it a warm, green glow to the forest floor. She’s here for Ron, yes, but also for Harry and Ginny and herself. And the wedding is still five months away. She wonders if she can finish her task by then.

A cloud passes overhead, blocking out the warmth, and Hermione is jerked from her thoughts. She still needs to cast protective spells around her tent before dark. The forests of Romania are no place to be caught alone and exposed.

After a year of hiding away in dusty wizarding libraries (and some Muggle ones, too) across Europe and Asia, of reading every book she could get her hands on (even if they were part of private collections), of learning all manner of obscure spells (many of them Dark and dangerous), Hermione has one thing left to do. 

Hunt down Ron’s killer.

She’s kept her eyes open, of course, during the year she was studying. Asked her own questions, even once posed as an Auror to enter a wizarding family’s home in order to interview them. Like Harry, every trail led to a dead end.

And then she’d really started _thinking_. A Dark wizard bold enough to sneak into Hogwarts to place a cursed golf ball on the floor would have hidden in plain sight for a while, biding his time until someone touched it and the inevitable fallout in the papers. But he probably hadn’t reckoned on killing one of the three most famous people in Britain—a personal friend of Harry Potter. A friend who wouldn’t stop until he’d found Ron’s murderer. And since Harry hadn’t found him yet, Hermione assumed the murderer had gone into hiding, out of the country.

And so she’d dove in again, researching hotspots for previous generations of dark witches and wizards. Many of them shared a common thread—Romania. 

Romania makes sense. Voldemort himself was said to have hidden here between the First War and the Second, after he killed Harry’s parents and before he returned with Professor Quirrell. The forested mountains are dark and mostly uninhabited. The people who do live near the forests keep to themselves. All sorts of magical creatures lie within. It’s a Dark wizard’s dream for hiding out.

And Hermione is determined to search every inch of these mountains if she has to. Armed with Dark spells and a powerful need for justice, she figures if she is to find a Dark witch or wizard, she needs to start thinking like one.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione wakes to find she’s fallen asleep at the table, her head resting on a book. It’s open to a page with the recipe for a nasty potion used to slowly liquefy an enemy’s organs. The lamp in front of her is the only light in the tent.

So, not morning, yet.

When she sits up, the page sticks to Hermione’s face. She’s careful not to tear it as she smooths it out and closes the book. Maybe she’ll sleep in the bunk tonight. She drags her blanket over to the bed, not bothering to even remove her shoes. She never does, just in case something gets past her wards and tries to surprise her.

And she can’t forget that she’s close to the dragon preserve. Wards or no, if a dragon stumbles over her tent, she’ll be squashed like a beetle under Hagrid’s boot.

The first few weeks of her search have turned up nothing. She spends her days looking for evidence of magic, her nights huddled under a blanket in the Weasley’s old tent, studying until her eyes won’t stay open.

She waves her wand to extinguish the flame, dousing her in darkness so intense she might as well be blind. Hermione sighs and closes her eyes, listening to a few crickets chirp in the trees.

And something else.

She opens her eyes again and mutters, “ _Lumos_.” The tip of her wand lights up and she stands. More crickets, then . . .

The soft snap of a twig. With the wave of her wand, Hermione casts _Amplificare_ , secretly boosting any sound outside the area surrounding the tent.

And then she definitely hears them—footsteps. Even with the spell, they are very soft. Knowing her wards prevent anyone from seeing the tent and the area directly surrounding it, she walks outside holding her wand aloft. But it won’t illuminate anything outside the wards. And it’s not worth exposing herself, is it?

The footsteps stop somewhere just ahead, but it’s too dark to see anything. Hermione chastises herself for not setting a trap or two to catch wandering wizards. Tomorrow night, for sure.

She conjures a chair and sits in front of the tent, deciding to wait. The person or animal is breathing softly, yet it doesn’t sound asleep.

Under the amplifying spell, the breathing sounds close. It works on Hermione’s nerves, fraying them at the edges. It’s exactly how she would breathe if she didn’t want someone to hear her.

It remains there all night. By the time dawn creeps over the ridge, Hermione is fighting both sleep and panic. Whatever it is didn’t move all night, and she can’t take down the tent and remove the wards without being seen.

When the first pale light finally reaches the forest floor, her heart jumps into her throat. A man is sitting against a tree, awake, staring straight at her tent. She jumps up and almost gives herself away. He can’t see her, though, can he?

He’s a wizard—dusty black robes and dark grey cloak. He’s even holding his wand in hand. His hood’s down. His dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, making him look younger than perhaps he is. Plain face, with a strong jaw but slightly sharp features.

“I know you’re there,” he says in English. “And just so you know, I’ve cast my own wards over the top of yours. There’s no escape this time.”

_This time?_

Hermione finds her voice and her courage, “How do I know you won’t just hex me as soon as you see me?”

“I have no intention of hexing you,” he drawls, standing up. He’s taller than she thought. And he holds his wand like it’s an extension of his arm. Everything about him exudes power. “Hexing would be too good for you. And anyway, I’m not in the mood to play with my prey.”

Hermione shudders. She was searching for Dark wizards. It looks like she found one. “Then why would I make myself an easy target?” she calls.

“If I have to tear down your wards myself, you’ll suffer that much more in the end.”

She humphed. “Like to see you try,” she mutters.

The wizard walks right up to the edge of her wards. He’s still more than ten feet away, but she can see the gleam of a challenge in his eyes. “That’s what they all say,” he says softly. “But I always get them out in the end.”

Anger is blooming inside Hermione’s chest, heat rising to her cheeks. _Think like a Dark wizard._ What would he do? 

_Hex him before he can see you._

She sends the first two spells flying toward the stranger. He must have anticipated them. He blocks the first one, but it’s still so powerful he’s knocked back into the tree. Hermione smiles, but her delight is short-lived. He’s fully prepared for the second spell, blocking it with a flick of his wrist and diving out of the way of more. He roars something at the same time, and Hermione can feel the wards around her vibrating.

She throws more hexes at him, but the trees are thick, perfect for covering him even though he could only be a few feet away. Taking a cue from him, she runs around the other side of the tent and leaves the safety of her wards, only to bash up against one of his own when she tries to duck behind a tree. She scrambles to hide at the base, turning to watch what’s happening behind.

The air around her shimmers in the morning light. Hermione’s wards come crashing down with loud pops and sparks. She gapes at the magic for a moment, caught in awe. Even with all her reading, she’s never encountered this.

Then she remembers: her book is on the table. And her beaded purse. _They’re inside._ Hermione summons them to her, but they’re caught in the sparks, lifted up into the air, and hung on a tree branch high above.

She looks around wildly for the wizard, ducking down as the tent comes into view at last. With a loud crack, the last of her protection is crumbled, and Hermione casts a quick Disillusionment Charm over herself.

But the wizard isn’t stupid. He doesn’t come charging out, or even around the tent.

“ _Revelio!_ ” he calls.

She breathes a sigh of relief. That charm doesn’t work on people.

But the next minute, her hands snap to her sides as she’s immobilized. Her whole body stiffens, and she falls against the tree.

The wizard stalks up to her, breathing heavily. Hermione’s pleased at least that breaking her wards took a lot of effort. He removes the Disillusionment Charm and Hermione feels the warm tingle as she’s exposed to her captor.

He pauses, his wand pointed at her. “Who are _you_?” he asks. A flicker of surprise crosses his face.

Hermione stares at him wide-eyed, thinking of all the horrible things he could do to her. How did this happen? She was so careful.

He picks up her wand before sending cords shooting out of his own. Then he releases her from the Body-Bind, and she’s bound hand and foot instead. The wizard reaches down, grabs her by the shoulders, and props her up against the tree.

“Who are you?” he asks again. “Besides a very big fool.”

“Not who you were expecting?”

“No. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Why should I tell you who I am if all you’re going to do is kill me?” She hopes that’s all he has in mind, anyway.

“Maybe I won’t kill you if you tell me who you are.”

“So that you can hunt down my friends and family, just for kicks?”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s been my experience that Dark wizards look for every opportunity to create pain and suffering.”

He smirks. “Yes, they do.” Without a word, he releases her bonds with a wave of his wand. “I, however, am not that kind of wizard. And I don’t think you are, either.”

Hermione reaches for her wand, but his wand at her throat stops her. “Ah, ah. What’s your name?”

“I’m still not telling you.”

His eyes pierce hers, forcing Hermione to use Occlumency to keep him out. He gives up without really trying. Instead he chuckles. “You look like a starving little wren. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you—Wren.”

Hermione scoffs. “What, like a pet?”

“If you like. You can call me Orev.”

“Orev— _Raven_?” She snorts.

“Very good. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.” Orev motions for her to get to her feet.

“I like your tent,” he says once she’s standing. “I might keep it.”

“Go ahead. It smells like cats.” If Orev ran off with her tent, maybe he’d forget the bag and book currently hanging in the tree above their heads.

No such luck. He summons them both in the next instant, catching them from the air.

“Those are mine!”

“Tsk tsk! Never let on how important something is to you, especially when it’s in danger of being taken away.”

“It won’t be of any value to _you._ ”

“No? Let’s just look, shall we?” 

Hermione makes a grab for the bag. He blocks her with his body, half-turning but keeping his wand leveled at her chest. “Maybe you’re not too smart, after all, witch.”

The first thing he brings out is the _Dark Arts for Healing_ book. He drops the purse to the ground and raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing with this?”

Hermione raises her chin in defiance, but refuses to answer his questions.

Orev removes more—stolen book after stolen book, all about the Dark Arts. His face darkens, and he takes a menacing step closer. “I’m about to change my mind about you. What do you need with these?”

She needs him to stop looking. Anything to keep him from searching deeper, from finding Harry’s letters. Why didn’t she burn them? Sentimental fool! They would ruin everything. “Give me back my wand, and I’ll explain.”

“Explain, or I might be leaving your body here for the trolls to find!”

“What does it matter to you what I’m doing with them? Who were you looking for?”

“It matters, witch, simply because you are not in a position to say no!”

“So go ahead, then.”

“Go ahead and what?” he sneers.

“Make good on your threats. You don’t frighten me—I’ve faced far worse wizards than you. Or do you not have the guts to kill me, after all?” Hermione is feeling a kind of reckless abandon. Maybe dying won’t be so bad, if he’s quick.

Orev grabs her arm and pulls her over to stand in front of the tent. “The wizard I am looking for has spent the last year hiding in this very forest. Year after year, I’ve watched these trees. I know every time someone enters. I just don’t always find them right away. And this wizard has been practicing the Dark Arts ever since he arrived—I’ve seen the evidence scattered all over the place.

“Now, a Wren arrives on her own, with a bag of books about powerful Dark Magic,” he shakes the bag. “She lives in a rotted tent, and expects me to believe she’s not helping the wizard I am seeking?”

Hermione glares at him. “Let go of me. I’m not helping any Dark wizards.”

Orev searches her eyes. What will it matter if he knows what she’s doing here? Hermione is tired already of this run around. She allows him to see that she’s telling the truth. He releases her arm. 

Hermione sighs, then takes a deep breath and says, “I’m looking for a Dark wizard myself.”

“Who?” he asks sharply.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

She shakes her head. “He killed someone, then disappeared. And that’s _all_ I’m telling you! Now can I have my wand back, please?”

“You. Hunting down a Dark wizard.” Orev smirks again. Hermione thinks it’s a really unfortunate habit.

She smiles grimly. “Not for the first time.”

“And you’re English.”

“So are you, it seems.”

He peers at her more carefully, now, turning dark eyes onto her hazel ones. Hermione stares back, unflinching, careful to conceal her thoughts. It wouldn’t do for Orev to find out about the Order of the Phoenix or her involvement with Harry Potter.

“You’re a bit young to have fought in the War,” he says after a moment.

“So you’ve heard of it then?” she asks, not bothering to keep the sneer out of her own voice. “While some were hiding away in the forest like cowards, others were fighting for their very lives, even the young ones. You don’t have much of a choice when it’s brought to your door!”

“Enough,” he commands, real anger in his voice for the first time.

“So what _were_ you doing? Being crowned Lord Protector of the Trees?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! And now you are wasting my time.” Orev summons Hermione’s wand, then hands it to her. “Get out of my forest.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Trust me, I am perfectly capable of making good on my threats.” Orev turns, and with a swish of his cloak, stomps off into the trees. Hermione watches after him a minute. The wizard’s words come back to her: _The wizard I am looking for has spent the last year hiding in this very forest._

Then, in a moment of recklessness, Hermione waves her wand to take down the tent and pack it into her purse with her books. In two minutes, she’s slinging her bag around her shoulders, going after Orev.

If he hadn’t wanted her to follow, he should have Disapparated.


	6. Chapter 6

Orev pretends not to notice Hermione for several miles. He climbs wooded slopes, clambers over rocks and streams, and generally finds the most difficult paths possible. By the time he turns around to confront her, Hermione is panting with the effort of keeping up with him.

He sends a hex her way, which, even in her current state of physical exhaustion, Hermione easily blocks. Orev’s attempt is lazy.

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” he calls. “Get _out_.”

“I have questions,” she says, slumping down on a fallen tree.

“I don’t answer questions.”

“Why are you here?”

Orev snorts. “Why are any of us here?”

“You know what I mean—why are you living in a Romanian forest hunting down Dark wizards?”

“You just answered your own question, didn’t you? What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“What’s wrong with _me_?”

“I tell you to get lost, threaten you even, and you follow me through dense forests to ask me questions? Are you looking for someone to finish you off, or what?”

Hermione glares at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Orev stomps back to her, sliding down a needle-covered slope to stand on the other side of her log. His robes are dustier than ever. A strand of hair has fallen out of his ponytail and is sticking to his face.

“Why else does a witch go to the forest alone, to hunt down someone she’s never met, without any plan at all for catching him? Sounds like a death wish to me.”

“I have a plan.”

Orev rolls his eyes. “Use something you found in one of those books of yours? Dark Magic isn’t something you just pick up along the way, you know. You have to practice and _feel_ it to really master it.”

“Sounds like you have some experience, then.”

Orev’s silence is affirmation enough for Hermione. She rises and brushes off her robes. “When was the last time you were in England?” she asks, making careful eye contact.

Orev doesn’t blink. “Five years ago.”

“Any contact with anyone living there?”

“No. None.”

“Who’s your family?”

“I’m not going to answer that question.”

“Thought you weren’t going to answer any at all?”

“My turn—”

“Oh I’m not done.” Hermione straightens. “Do you have any particular knowledge about cursed objects? A specialty, maybe?”

Orev snorts. “I have some experience, yes. Now—”

“And have you at any time in the last—oh, let’s say _ten_ —years made contact with a cursed object that you knew would end up in the hands of an unsuspecting victim?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“There was a War on, remember?”

“So you _were_ there!” Hermione pushes her way into his thoughts, looking for evidence, for anything that might connect him to Ron’s death.

“Legilimency won’t do you any good with me, little Wren. But go ahead and try. I’ll wait.”

Hermione breaks eye contact herself. “Stop calling me that.”

“Oh she doesn’t like it.”

“You must have been out here a while, to enjoy mocking me like you’re a First Year at Hogwarts.”

Orev smiles. “Matter of fact, I am enjoying it. It’s been a while since I’ve had a visitor.”

“Oh? When was the last time?”

“No. My turn. What’s your name?”

“Mirabelle.”

“No, it’s not.”

 _Humph!_ He’s more clever than she wants to admit.

“Since you won’t give me your real name, I still get to call you Wren.”

“Who says you’re going to get a chance to call me anything?”

“You. Clearly you want some help, or you wouldn’t have followed me.”

“I don’t want _help_! I wanted to question you.”

“And have you found out anything? Do you think I’m the wizard you’re looking for?”

“It’s not a joking matter.”

Orev stops smiling. “No, I imagine it’s not.”

Hermione suddenly feels wrong-footed, like he’s turned the tables somehow. And she remembers how he tore down her wards earlier in the day. He is a powerful wizard, and more cunning than he’s letting on at the moment. She needs to be careful.

“Tell you what,” Orev says. “I will help you look for this wizard if you help me with something.”

“Depends on what it is.”

He sits down on the log and gestures for her to do the same. Hermione hesitates a moment, unwilling to let down her guard. Then Orev, seeing her reluctance, tucks his wand into a pocket in his cloak. Hermione sits, but she leaves her wand on her lap, within ready use. No way is she going to give up an advantage over him.

Orev ignores her wand, then says, “A few years ago I was injured in a duel—”

“How? Where was the injury?”

“Will you let me finish? And it doesn’t matter where.”

“But it _does_ matter.”

“No, it really doesn’t, not in this case.”

“ _Oh._ Is it private?” Hermione sweeps her eyes over his body. He doesn’t _seem_ handicapped in any way, but those robes could hide all sorts of hideous scars.

“So _ever since then_ ,” he continues, drawing her attention back to his eyes, “I haven’t been able to Apparate.”

“Oh that explains it.”

“Why I didn’t Disapparate away from you? Yes.” Orev scowls slightly, as if he already regrets telling her.

“So how can I help you?”

“You seem intelligent enough: I want to know why I lost my ability.”

“And you think I’ll know?”

“Or can find out. Maybe one of those Healing books you have in there have an answer.”

“So you just want to read my books.”

Orev smirks. “No, I want _you_ to read the books and find out for me. In exchange, I’ll help you find your Dark wizard.”

Hermione chews the inside of her mouth, then, remembering it makes her look like a school girl, stops and sits up straighter. The idea is tantalizing. She seems to recall reading something about a wizard losing powers after a traumatic event. But that was all of his powers. Clearly Orev hasn’t lost all of his. And she doesn’t remember exactly which book . . .

“So?” he prompts.

 _Harry and Ginny’s wedding is at Christmas. I need to be home by Christmas._ In truth, she is ready to go home. She doesn’t care to admit just how homesick she really is.

“I’m inclined to agree to this arrangement,” she says. “But with some rules.”

Orev raises an eyebrow, then nods for her to continue.

“Rule One: you don’t enter my tent.”

He nods again.

“Rule Two: you don’t touch my bag for any reason.”

“Don’t touch your bags—got it.”

Hermione glares at him, annoyed at his boyish joke. “How old _are_ you, anyway?”

Orev smirks. “I apologize. Please continue.”

“Rule Three: you keep me apprised of any information regarding the wizard I am seeking, but I am not required to tell you anything I don’t wish to.”

“How can I help if you withhold information from me?”

“I’ll tell you what you need to know. Rule Four: you teach me any Magic I ask you.”

“No.”

“What?”

“The deal is I help you with your manhunt, you help me Disapparate. I’m not going to _teach_ you anything.”

Hermione sniffs, thinking it was worth a shot.

“I’ll agree to the first three,” he says, “but I’d like to add one of my own.”

“Okay.”

Orev stands. “You don’t ask me specifics about my injury. If I want you to know, I’ll tell you.”

Curiosity piqued, Hermione resists the urge to sweep her eyes over his body again. “It may make it harder for me to help you.”

“Not any harder than you’ve made it for me. You don’t tell me about the wizard you’re looking for, I don’t tell you about the injury. That’s the deal.”

Hermione stands and offers her hand. “Done.”

Orev takes it. His hand is calloused and warm. After a moment, Hermione lets go.

“So, Wren, what type of wizard are we looking for?”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione lifts her hair away from her face and holds up the mirror. Her roots are definitely lighter. She casts another charm to make them a dark brown, then frowns. There’s no denying that her roots are also kinkier, her curls trying to force their way out again.

She’s taken too long to check her appearance. Out here in the forest for weeks, with only the trees for company, Hermione hasn’t bothered to keep up her disguise as well as she had in England. With a sigh, she casts another charm to tame the new growth, and puts down the mirror.

Orev is outside waiting on her. He’s conjured a small fire inside the wards. It’s flames cast blue shadows on the darkened trees. Hermione brings a mug of tea for both of them, handing him one before sitting beside the fire. The warmth of the fire and tea feels good in the cool night air.

“So you think,” Orev says without looking up from the fire, “that the wizard you’re seeking is the one I’ve been chasing around in this very forest.”

Hermione had carefully filled him in on her mission, excluding names, dates, and places.

“The timeline fits,” she says. “He committed a murder just over a year ago. And no trace of him was found.” Hermione’s voice grows quiet, even though she doesn’t want to let on how much the death personally affected her.

“And no one saw him—” 

“—or her—”

“—or her—enter the place that you won’t tell me about and leave the object you won’t be specific about in this room.”

“Yes.”

“You do realize that it could be anybody.”

“I am aware. If we could have narrowed it down, we would have caught the murderer already.”

“Who’s we?”

Hermione doesn’t answer.

After a moment, Orev smirks. The way the corner of his mouth sneaks up reminds her of someone. Who? Then the look is gone, and so is the resemblance.

“What?” she asks.

“I was just thinking. You _did_ want my help. I told you I’d been searching for a rogue wizard for over a year. That’s why you came after me.”

Hermione flushes and tries to hide her gaze in the fire. “It was an impulse.”

“Are you always so impulsive?”

She looks over at him. His dark eyes are staring back at her. Again, he reminds her of someone. She just can’t place _who_. Hermione shifts in her seat. “When I need to be.”

They sit in silence for a while. It’s comfortable, sitting here with him. And she’s only known him for what, less than a day? That she already feels so at ease around a complete stranger disturbs her.

“So,” Hermione says, taking a sip of tea, “when did you first notice you weren’t able to Apparate?”

“The first time I tried to do it after recovering from my injury.”

“What happens when you try?”

“It’s what _doesn’t_ happen that’s the problem. That’s why I’m telling you about it.”

“So, no tingling, no dizziness . . .”

“Nothing. I just stand there like a complete fool, turning around on my heel like a ballet dancer.”

“Ballet dancers turn on their toes.”

“What?” A hint of annoyance crosses Orev’s face.

There it is again! The way his face contorts looks just like . . . She can almost say who. If he just keeps that look a moment longer . . .

Hermione’s almost tempted to annoy him some more, just to tease it out of him.

“Is that all you have to say?” he prompts.

“How old are you?” she asks.

Orev’s eyes narrow. “I thought we agreed not to discuss particulars.”

“Only particulars regarding your injuries and my friend’s death.”

“Still, I don’t believe I’m going to answer that.”

“In case you hadn’t thought about this, sometimes older wizards don’t recover completely from severe trauma.”

“Just how much older do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

“How old do I look, then?”

Hermione snorts. “What difference does it make how old you _look_?”

Orev shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t. I’m just curious.”

“You really want me to guess?” The whole question was ridiculous. How had they even landed on this conversation?

“Go ahead.”

She turns to face him. No receding hairline. Dark hair with no gray. A few lines around his eyes—not many. A crease between his eyebrows. But that doesn’t matter. She has those, too, from frowning too much. Yes, too much frowning over the years.

“Well?” he asks.

“Mid-thirties, forty maybe.”

Orev nods. “Thirty-five.”

“Hmm . . . Did you attend Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

“You know Bill Weasley, then? He’s about your age, I think.”

Orev makes an indistinct noise, somewhere between a snort and a cough. “I knew of him.”

“What House were you in?”

Orev stares at Hermione. “Slytherin. What about you? Oh wait, let me guess . . . _Gryffindor_.”

“I’m not going to apologize. Hagrid used to say ‘there wasn’t witch or wizard that went bad that wasn’t in Slytherin.’”

He raises an eyebrow. “And we now know, don’t we, after years of war, that traitors turned up in every House. Don’t get all sanctimonious on me.”

The more Hermione hears him speak, the more familiar he seems, and yet she’s certain she’s not seen his face before. Not like this, anyway. Who does she know that’s about the same age as Bill Weasley?

“So who are you _really_?” she asks. She can’t help it. 

“Tut, tut, Wren.”

“Maybe we met at the Ministry at one point?” she presses.

“And do you often have business at the Ministry?”

Hermione bites her tongue. She’s said too much. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts, she’s been at the Ministry on an almost daily basis, for one reason or another. It’s not until the last year that . . .

She sits back, looking back at the fire. Why does it even matter whether she’s met Orev before? If she has, it was in passing at the Ministry or some other wizarding establishment. All that matters is that he seems to be willing to help, although why she can’t imagine. Surely he could have done his own research into his loss of ability to Apparate?

“Okay, Orev, you win for now. But at least can you tell me what you’ve been up to in this forest?”

He sighs. “There is not much to tell. After the War, I made my way here. And don’t look at me that way, I wasn’t fleeing from punishment of any sort.” 

Orev stares into the fire again. “But I knew that others would. And these mountains surrounding the dragon preserve are some of the most remote on the planet. And the most magical. If Death Eaters wanted to run away to some place where they could perhaps band together again, I thought this would be the place.”

“So you are hunting down the remains of the Death Eaters.”

“I feel it’s . . . necessary.”

“Know a lot about Death Eaters, do you?”

“Don’t you?”

Hermione takes in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t answer.

Orev leans forward, his gaze holding hers. “You must have spent considerable time researching them to have ended up here. Why do you assume I haven’t done the same?”

“I didn’t assume any such thing.”

“No, you just think you alone have the right to be here.”

Hermione’s cheeks warm in anger. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“Oh but I do,” his voice has turned silky soft.

Hermione suppresses a shudder. “What is it that you think you know?” she asks, matching his tone.

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the death of your friend was very personal. And you have obviously attempted to prepare yourself for whatever you might encounter in this forest. However, it’s also painfully obvious you’ve had no real experience with the Dark Arts.”

“How _dare_ you!” Hermione’s nostrils flare.

Orev shrugs.

 _He actually just shrugged at me,_ she thinks.

He presses on. “Don’t be offended. You don’t have to have actually used the Dark Arts to fight them, you know.”

Hermione stands, her anger threatening to get the better of her. “Well, this has been a very _enlightening_ conversation, Orev. I’m glad we could go ahead and get all our differences out in the open.”

Orev stands, too. “Better to know now, than to figure it out when we’re being attacked by a Dark wizard we wouldn’t recognize if he threw himself into our fire!”

Hermione raises her hands in surrender. “Enough. I’m going to bed.”

She stalks off, punching the tent flap aside so it looks angry, too.

“It’s not polite to just leave in the middle of a conversation, you know,” Orev calls to her.

Hermione fumes as she sets another ward on the inside of her tent; no way is she even taking the chance that Orev could get in here. She half thinks he could be the wizard she’s searching for, after all. And _why_ does his face bother her? Hermione learned long ago to never dismiss her gut feelings. If his face bothers her, it bothers her. She’ll figure it out soon enough.

She sinks down onto the bunk and glances at the canvas tent flap. There really is no protection between herself and the man outside the tent.

Especially since he’s already proved he can bring down her wards.

Hermione paces a bit, then pulls a couple of random books out of her bag. But after flipping through pages for a few minutes, she still can’t settle down. She huffs and slams the book shut.

She can always Apparate out.

 _That’s not an option, Hermione_.

She grabs her wand, marching to the door. If she doesn’t feel safe enough to sleep, then she’ll make sure Orev doesn’t, either. She yanks the tent flap open, ready to exchange words again. But the accusations die on her lips.

Orev is gone.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Orev’s left the blue campfire burning. With an exasperated sigh, Hermione extinguishes it. This night is darker than the one before. Clouds cover the moon. Being underneath the heavy canopy of trees almost feels like walking the dungeons of Hogwarts, except without the torches; the cold, damp smell is just a little more earthy here. The feeling of being completely surrounded by darkness is unnerving, like she’s floating out in nothingness. Only the ground at her feet roots her to the spot.

But Hermione’s been in the forest for weeks. The blackness doesn’t bother her anymore.

It _doesn’t_.

She shivers anyway.

She sits down in the opening of the tent, ready to wait. After a while, her head nods down toward her chest; she bolts upright and pinches herself.

Maybe Orev’s left for good. But then why would he leave the campfire burning?

“Trouble, Wren?” She hears his voice before she hears him walking toward her.

“No. I thought you’d left.”

“Miss me?”

She scoffs. “Where are you?”

“I’d have an easier time finding my way back if you hadn’t doused my light— _Lumos_.” His wand tip flares as he emerges from the trees. He passes through the wards to stand in front of her.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks.

“I don’t sleep much.” _And I can’t sleep when a complete stranger is camped outside my door._

“Mind if I sit beside you, or will that violate Rule Number One?”

Hermione scoots over so he has room to sit at her left, but she keeps her hand on her wand all the same. As an afterthought, she summons the book to her from the table inside. It whizzes out through the flap, barely missing Orev’s head. Hermione catches it.

Orev jumps away, wand ready. “Son of _Merlin_ ,” he breathes, looking relieved to see it’s just a book.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

Orev glares at her. “You’re lucky I didn’t accidentally hex you.” 

“ _Sorry_ ,” Hermione says again. “ _Lumos_.” Her own wand lights, and she opens the book, scanning for the page she remembers reading, the one about the wizard who lost all his powers. Hermione flips through several pages before she realizes Orev is still looking at her. She sits up a bit straighter and looks back at him, her eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“So these books . . .,” he begins.

“Yes?” She tries hard to keep the irritation out of her voice. Although she really doesn’t know why she’s irritated. It’s perfectly natural to be curious about a slightly manic witch camping in the forest, carting around hundreds of books inside a charmed purse. What she must look like to him.

Orev leans over to look at the title printed at the top of the page. “I’ve checked that one already.”

“You have? When?”

“About three years ago. And it’s funny you should have a copy of it. Only one is known to be in existence, and it resides in a stuffy old library in Venice.”

“Not anymore, it doesn’t.”

“Tsk, tsk. I didn’t take you for the type.”

“Hmmm…” She closes the book. If he’s already checked it, then there’s really no point to reading it right now. “The library wasn’t that stuffy, though. I thought it was rather charming.”

Orev’s eyes sparkle.

“Amused?” she asks.

“Maybe. Any other rare editions hiding in your bag?”

“I suppose I’ll have to let you tell me which ones you’ve read already,” she admits.

“Yes.”

Hermione sneaks another glance at him, trying to remember where she’s met him before. In the white light of their wands, his face seems paler than it had earlier, making it look even more familiar. She pushes the thought aside. It won’t do to drive herself crazy trying to figure it out. Maybe he’s a cousin of somebody she knows. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“There are several caves surrounding and just inside the dragon preserve. And they’re only accessible if you’re willing to climb hundreds of feet straight up.”

“So we’ll have to Apparate up there.” Hermione eyes him warily. “Side-along?”

“If you don’t mind. I’m not much of a climber.”

Neither is Hermione. “No, I don’t mind. We’ll need to cast a Disillusionment charm before we get there,” she says. “It won’t do to Apparate directly into the middle of a Death Eater camp and be completely exposed.”

“I agree.” Orev runs a hand over his face. “Look, if you’re not going to sleep, do you mind if I do?”

 _And just where does he plan to sleep?_ Hermione wonders.

Orev catches her look and gestures to the ground. “Out here, of course.”

“You trust me enough to do that?” A twinge of guilt passes through her.

“Why—don’t you?” Orev searches her face, realization dawning. “Oh. You weren’t going to sleep with me out here.”

Hermione clears her throat. “You can hardly blame me.”

“No, I cannot. But I assure you, Wren, you’re safe with me.”

Hermione’s breath hitches in her throat. Not because she’s surprised at his words—although she is that—but because she actually believes him. That’s stupid, though, to make such a decision based on a gut feeling. She needs proof that he’s trustworthy. “Why?” she blurts.

“ _Why_?” Orev almost looks insulted.

“Tell me something to make me believe you.”

“Like what?”

“That’s up to you.”

He sits quietly for a minute, then says, “I’m not sure there’s anything I can say to make you believe me, and you shouldn’t wish for it. Words—any words—can be deceiving, no matter how much feeling is behind them.” He spits out the last part.

_What is that about?_

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “I’ll stand guard tonight.”

Orev nods and cast a cushioning charm on the ground right where he sits. Then he lies down on his back, staring up through the trees. After a moment he closes his eyes. 

Hermione’s slightly taken aback that he’s still beside her. Apparently he has no qualms _at all_ about sleeping next to a complete stranger. Is it because he really is that powerful or because he’s just really arrogant? Because Hermione can’t answer the question, she doesn’t know whether to be impressed or offended.

“Why don’t you start looking through some more books, Wren, instead of watching me sleep.” Orev keeps his eyes closed as he says it.

Hermione flushes, realizing she’d been staring. “Umm . . . Yeah. Okay.”

True to her word, Hermione stays up, keeping watch, reading one book after another until her eyes won’t focus. She nods off over _Five Hundred Ways to Turn a Curse into a Weapon_ , jerking awake just as she’s about to fall over onto Orev.

Well that wouldn’t have gone well. If he hadn’t killed her for startling him, she would have died of shame.

By dawn, Hermione’s bone tired. She climbs to her feet, careful not to disturb Orev. He’s sleeping on his side, mouth open, a wisp of hair falling down around his nose. At least he doesn’t snore.

Inside the tent, she sets about making more tea, charming the kettle, which still has water from the night before. As she takes her first sip of herbal tea, she glances over at her bunk.

What she wouldn’t give for ten minutes there. Just a little nap. The fog in her brain hinders her ability to fight the weariness in her body. Her feet take her over to the mattress. So soft. And the tent is still pleasantly dark.

Just ten minutes.

 _Hermione._ Ron says her name. He’s got a surprise for her, something he found in Diagon Alley. A new quill made from an eagle feather. Not magical, just beautiful. It smells like herbal tea. 

 _Hermione,_ Ron says again. His face is fading from her _._ Hermione can’t respond. Her tongue is swollen, her throat parched. _Wren,_ he says. But that’s not her name, it’s someone else’s.

“Wren!”

Hermione bolts upright.

“Are you awake in there?”

Orev.

Strong yellow sunshine streams through a crack in the tent flap. Hermione’s face is wet—she’d been crying in her dream. 

“Yes!” she manages. “I’ll be right out.”

She grabs the sleeve of her robes to blot her cheeks. It’s wet, too, and smells like herbal tea. The mug lays on the floor next to the bed. She must have carried it to bed with her and forgotten about it. Now it’s all over her clothes.

Hermione finds her wand and uses it to clean up. In another minute, she’s outside, blinking in the sunshine. Orev stands by another fire. Two small, plucked birds are spitted and roasting over it.

“Hope you like wild hens,” he says.

“I’ve never tried them.”

“They’re better than living off of dried rations.” Orev sweeps his eyes over her hair, her face, her wrinkled clothing. “Sleep well?” he smirks.

Hermione reaches up to smooth her hair into place. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well, next time you get tired, just wake me.”

The hen is gamey, but definitely better than what Hermione’s been eating lately. She eats in silence, trying her best to push away the warm memory of her dream. She’d give anything to go back to it. Back to a place where Ron was alive.

At least the dream was relatively harmless. This time she didn’t wake in terror at watching Ron die again at the War Memorial. She finally puts the thought aside and glances at Orev. He’s almost done eating. Then he’ll want to leave. She’s ready, too. Yesterday was a complete waste of time.

“So,” Hermione says when they’re both finished, “I can Apparate us to the edge of the dragon preserve, then we can walk around it and find those caves.”

“My dear Wren, I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

Hermione looks up. Is he going back on his part of the deal?

Orev smirks. “There’s no point in walking around the preserve when we can walk right through it.”

“ _Through_ it?” _He must be joking._

“Problem?”

“I can think of a number of problems, and they all breath fire.”

“Relax. I’ve done it a hundred times. It’ll save us time.”

“So we’ll Apparate from place to place. I see no reason to _walk_ through known dragon territory, even if you’ve done so in the past. Besides, aren’t there wards and all kinds of barriers to keep us out? Please tell me people can’t just waltz in.”

“Not just any people, no. Muggles can’t. And ordinary wizards are strongly advised against it.”

“Exactly,” Hermione stands, brushing off her robes. “It’s unnecessary danger.”

Orev stands, too. “Afraid, little Gryffindor?” His voice is soft, daring. He’s also standing a little too close; she can see the gleam of a challenge in his eye.

Hermione holds his gaze. “I won’t be goaded into doing something stupid.”

Orev scoffs. There’s a ring of contempt to it.

“What?” she asks.

Orev shakes his head. “Some would say what you are doing now is stupid.”

“People like you?”

“No. I’m here, too, remember? And going through dragon country isn’t unnecessary. We’ll have access to numerous potions ingredients we can’t find anywhere else.”

“ _Potions_ ingredients?”

Orev frowns. “Did I stutter? Yes, _potions_ ingredients. Half those books you carry list dragon dung or others as important ingredients.”

Hermione opens her mouth, then closes it. _He’s right_.

“You look exactly like a fish out of water when you do that.”

She ignores this. “So why haven’t you got them before now?”

“Because some of the more . . . coveted . . . ingredients are harder to obtain when it’s just me.”

“What, in particular, are you looking for?” Hermione suspects he’s had this in mind all along. That their bargain is just a ruse.

“I need a fresh dragon scale.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Fresh, as in, I-just-cut-it-off-the-dragon fresh?”

Orev nods, then smiles wickedly.

 _A fresh dragon scale._ The effort involved in getting one would be enormous, and likely rewarded with death or, at least, painful mangling. Hermione wants to be angry at his admission. But she can’t help being a little curious.

Okay, more than a little curious. “What are you going to use it for?”

“There’s a potion I want to try to restore my ability to Apparate.”

“ _Ahh_. So you don’t want to read my books, you want me to help you get an ingredient for a potion you’ve already decided on.”

“No. Well, yes. But I would also like access to your books, in case this doesn’t work.”

“The deal was for my books.”

“The deal was for you to help me restore my ability. Are you going back on your word?”

“How do I know you won’t just leave me as bait for the dragon while you sneak up behind it for your scales?”

“Scale—I only need one. And I wouldn’t do that, as tempting as it is. Now that you mention it, though, it’s not a bad idea to have bait . . .”

Despite her protests, Hermione’s stomach does a little flip of joy at the idea of trying a new potion. If they succeed . . .

No, if _he_ succeeds—he’s not likely to share credit.

But she doesn’t care about getting credit, not today, not with the possibility that Ron’s murderer is running free. Orev’s problems are no concern of hers, except where they will help her in her hunt. With this resolution, Hermione straightens. She’ll agree to help him as long as he holds up his end of the deal.

 _But a dragon, though._ Harry and Ron would have called the idea “mental.” But neither are here to stop her, and Hermione’s committed to seeing this through.

She inwardly sighs and meets Orev’s eyes again. They are like coal. As dark as his hair.

“Okay,” she says finally.

It’s not like she hasn’t undertaken suicidal missions before.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my new readers. I can’t express how humbled I am that with all the other things begging for your attention, you’re choosing to read my story. :)
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains a scene of harming an animal (namely-a dragon!). Nothing too terrible, promise. I’m too much of a softy when it comes to animals, dragons or no.
> 
> Happy Reading!

 

 

There’s something about seeing a dragon print in the mud, out in the middle of a forest, that sends shivers down Hermione’s spine. Orev could lay down inside it and still not reach from heel to claw. Right now, crouching beside it, he’s dwarfed by the massive print. It’s filled with water.

“I think it’s fresh,” he says. “See how it’s not covered by any leaves?”

“And it just rained here,” she adds, looking at the dripping leaves around them, “so it would have only made such a deep impression after the rain softened the ground.”

Hermione had thought it would be awkward, letting him Apparate with her to the edge of the preserve. Orev had grabbed her arm tightly, his grip strong. Then she’d turned on her heel, dragging him along. A bit of stumbling ensued when they landed—he’d held on a fraction longer than she’d expected, and Hermione had almost fallen over. Orev caught her, his mouth threatening her with that smirk she was finding more irritating every time he did it. Overall, though, the experience hadn’t been terrible.

“Hello? Wren?” He’s trying to get her attention.

“Sorry—what?”

Orev shakes his head at her lapse in attention. “I _said_ , do you have experience tracking?”

“Not really. It’s just common sense, though, right?” _Unless you count tracking Professor Quirrell-Voldemort through the Forbidden Forest outside Hogwarts in my first year._  

“Hmmm,” was all he says. “Be on your guard. It’s close.”

Hermione nods, the thrill of finding a dragon so quickly turning into a panic from _finding the dragon so quickly._ She hasn’t mentally prepared herself for it yet. “What are we going to do when we find it?”

“I liked the idea of bait—”

“So you said, but I’m not—”

“So _I_ was thinking about doing it.”

“Wait—what?” Not for the first time, Hermione is starting to believe her new acquaintance is slightly unhinged.

“I’ll be the bait, dangle myself in front of its nose, so to speak. You get the scale.”

“And what if it notices me trying to hex a scale off its body?”

“I’ll make a lot of noise and draw away its attention.”

Hermione snorts. Even Harry and Ron’s plans had more substance than this.

“Do you have a better idea?” she asks.

“Disillusion ourselves so it can’t see us. Then we sneak up on it and hit it with the same spell at the same time, increasing our chances of it actually working.”

“It will still smell us.”

“But if it can’t see us, we’ll have more time. Otherwise one of us will end up as its snack.”

“A tasty snack, I bet,” he murmurs, glancing at her.

Hermione flushes at his little aside, but decides to ignore him.

“You look better with some color,” he says, then suddenly looks chagrined, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

At this, Hermione’s face warms even more. To hide it, she pretends to dig through her beaded purse. She tells herself she’s blushing because she’s just not used to interacting with people. That the long months alone have taken their toll on her.

And Orev’s less-than-veiled signals are throwing her off-balance. The sooner they get this done, the better.

Orev doesn’t seem to mind that he’s made her blush. In fact, he only prolongs the moment by gazing at her for longer than necessary. A strange look passes over his face. Understanding, maybe? Recognition?

Hermione’s heart beats a little harder. She’s said too much, been too obvious. And if _she_ thinks _he_ looks familiar, wouldn’t it make sense that he feels the same about her?

“Are you finished?” she squeaks, rubbing in the fact that he’s made her uncomfortable.

The look passes from Orev’s face, and with it, his intense gaze. “We can discuss what we’re going to do about the dragon as we walk. Just keep your voice down.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Hermione hisses. She looks up, half-expecting the dragon to have found them from the air while they lingered under the trees. But the skies are clear.

While they track it, they quietly argue about their method of attack, right up until the dragon prints disappear over stony ground. Thick trees cover the bottom slope of a mountain. They stop talking and visually search the area.

“It could be anywhere,” Hermione says. She looks behind her, suddenly fearing the dragon is watching them.

Orev stiffens and puts a finger to his lips. He steps closer. Too close. Suddenly she’s mere inches from his body. Hermione forces herself not to take a step back.

“I don’t think so,” he whispers in her ear. “Look up. To the north.”

She follows his gaze into the trees.

There, sitting on wide, brown haunches, with a line of jet-black ridges going down its back, is a dragon.

And it sees them.

The lizard-looking thing flicks its long tail. Almost cat-like. _Like Crookshanks before he pounces on a mouse_ , Hermione thinks. With a pang of fear, she wishes more than anything she were sitting in her favorite armchair by the fire, her cat curled up in her lap. But the thought is fleeting; the dragon before her seizes her full attention.

While she stares open-mouthed at the beast before them, Orev taps her with his wand. The familiar feeling of an egg cracking over her head tells her he’s disillusioned her. Then he waves the wand over himself, repeating the spell. They both disappear.

“I guess we’re going with my plan, then,” she whispers.

Just then, the dragon roars. A stream of flames bursts out of its mouth, catching a nearby tree on fire. It stares at the spot where they’re standing. But now of course it can’t see them.

Can it?

“Hungarian Horntail?” Orev asks, almost academically. He’s still standing unnaturally close. Hermione can feel his body heat on her arm.

“No,” she breathes, “a Norwegian Ridgeback. It doesn’t have tail spikes.” This fact is somehow comforting.

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” she says grimly.

Orev touches her arm, then finds her hand and takes it.

“What?”

“Don’t want to lose you. Come on.”

Hermione allows Orev to guide her to the side, but she keeps her eyes planted on the dragon. It seems to know they’re moving—its nose moves from side to side, sniffing the air. Then it puts its front legs down and creeps forward, lighter on its feet than Hermione would have dreamed possible.

In a moment of confusion, she wonders why it hasn’t taken flight yet. Then, as the animal dips its head to the ground, nose pointed in their direction, she realizes.

It’s hunting them.

She prepares to Apparate. They don’t have to get a scale from this dragon, after all. Better to live today, and sneak up on another dragon tomorrow. She squeezes Orev’s hand, her body twisting . . .

“No,” he hisses, jerking her arm, and therefore her body, back to him. Hermione bounces off his invisible shoulder. “We can do this,” he says.

The dragon hears them and roars. This time the heat from its breath blows past them, whipping Hermione’s hair around her face. Orev pulls her quickly beneath a denser patch of trees. The irony of hiding from a fire-breathing monster behind extremely flammable material is not lost on Hermione.

“Just let me Apparate us behind it,” she says when they’re safer. “We’ll surprise it.”

“And have it beat us to death with its tail?”

“Let’s hear it, then, your grand idea.”

“I already told you—bait.”

“And what if you get into trouble? You can’t Apparate away.”

“You don’t have to point it out. I’m well aware of my shortcomings. But I do have other means of travel.”

“Like what?”

The dragon stalks through the trees. Its great body parts them as it forces itself into a deeper part of the forest. Unfortunately, it’s making its way ever closer to their hiding spot.

Orev lets go of her hand and steps away.

“No . . .,” she says, but too late. She can’t feel him or see him.

“Go,” he whispers. “Now.”

A great scramble out of the trees. Branches and undergrowth snap and bend beneath Orev as he runs down the slope _toward the dragon._ The creature hears the commotion and turns toward it.

Then, against all reason, Orev removes his own Disillusionment Charm. His robes billow out around him as he runs away from the dragon, which stops just long enough to roar again. Good thing, too, or it would have already had him.

The close roar sends pain shooting through Hermione’s eardrums, enough to shock her into usefulness. She runs toward the dragon’s leg, keeping an eye on its swishing tail.

A beat of wings. _It’s going to take off and land right on Orev._ Hermione stumbles on a root and manages to turn the movement into a slide down the slope. 

Almost there. The dragon’s just below.

The long tail swings toward her like a whip. Hermione throws herself to the ground and it swishes over the top of her, nearly smacking her in the nose. Then she’s up again and facing the dragon’s right leg.

She can’t see Orev anymore. She hears him shouting something but she doesn’t know what because blood is pounding in her ears, which might still be ringing with the dragon’s roar.

Disoriented, she takes a deep breath and casts the first spell that comes to mind. “ _Sectumsempra_!” she cries, pointing her wand at the leg.  

Dragon hide splits open with a burst of blood. A splash hits her face—it burns. She hits the leg with another charm to loosen a scale. A burst of sparks bounces off the animal. And the dragon is turning, howling in rage at being attacked by tiny prey.

And now Hermione is backtracking, tripping over her own robes to avoid being stomped by the dragon. Something flashes in front of her. She falls flat on her back. The dragon’s foot rises, rises, rise, into the air, then swoops down. Hermione rolls to the side just as a huge claw digs into the dirt next to her. A sharp pain shoots across her shoulders.

Somewhere above, a tree’s on fire. Red and yellow embers fall down and prickle her face, which is still stinging where the dragon blood hit it.

Hermione scrambles to her feet, grasps her wand, turns on her heel, and . . .

No. There. She _did_ loosen a scale; _it’s laying on the ground._ Abandoning her Apparition, Hermione dives for it. Then, over the roar of the dragon and the fire, she hears Orev’s voice shouting at her.

“Get out of there, Granger!”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely reviews!

 

The only thing that saves Hermione is that the dragon still can’t see her. She grabs the scale; it feels cold and hard in her hand. Then she concentrates on Orev and Apparates to his side. He’s confused a moment as her hand grabs his and she again Disapparates, this time to take them into another part of the forest.

When they reappear in a clearing, she removes the Disillusionment Charm still on her. She drops the scale and puts her hands on her knees, panting. Orev’s out of breath, too. He sinks to the ground next to her. In the distance, the dragon is still roaring.

“I think you . . . hurt it just enough . . . to make it angry,” Orev says between gulps of air.

Hermione’s face hurts. Her shoulder hurts. Really, her whole body hurts. She sits down, too.

Carefully.

“Alright,” she says when she can, “spill.”

Orev looks at her appraisingly, his eyes searching her face, then going down to her shoulder. He leans back to look at it.

“You’re hurt.” He reaches for her.

Hermione shrugs him off. “Not until you tell me how you know my name.”

He looks amused for a moment, then scowls. Really, there is no keeping up with this man’s moods.

“Because your charms wore off when the dragon blood hit you. I recognize you now.”

Hermione gasps, then reaches into her bag for a little mirror. Sure enough, her own nose and freckled face stare back at her. Red blotches pepper her face where the dragon’s blood and fire burned her.  

“So where do you know me from?” she demands, dropping the mirror and looking him in the eye.

“Are you serious? Everyone in the wizarding world knows your face. Hermione Granger, one-third of the Golden Trio.”

Hermione bites back a sob. Maybe it’s because she’s tired and injured. Or because he’s mentioned a group that is made up of two now instead of three. Or because she’s been on her own too long. Either way, she’s relieved she doesn’t have to pretend anymore.

Orev hesitates, a wary look in his eye. “I was sorry to hear about the death of Ronald Weasley.”

She says nothing. What is there to say?

“I’m assuming you are here for him, then?”

Hermione looks out to the trees and sighs. “Yes.”

They sit there a while, listening to the dragon create a fuss in the distance.

“You really need to let me look at your shoulder, Granger. It’s bleeding.”

“Some bait you turned out to be.”

“It’s not my fault you stayed longer than you should have!”

“Why you arrogant—”

“Wait,” Orev says, standing. “Wait.”

Hermione listens, but the woods have gone silent. “Where’s the dragon?” she whispers.

A shadow passes over the clearing.

Hermione doesn’t wait to find out if it’s spotted them. She leans over, grabs Orev’s ankle, and Disapparates with him in tow.

They land on another mountain altogether, just at the edge of the dragon preserve. Hermione was sitting when she disappeared, and she’s still sitting when she lands. Orev, who’s just had his feet pulled out from under him, lands right on top of her, his weight knocking her backward to the ground.

“ _Oomph_!” they both say.

He raises, propping his weight on his arm as he tries to orient himself. They are a tangle of robes and cloaks. Eventually, they figure out whose limbs belong to whom, and Orev shifts positions to free his cloak from underneath her. He ends up with his body lined up with Hermione’s, pressing her into the ground. For a moment, she can’t think.

Orev frees his cloak, but doesn’t move. Instead, he’s staring directly into her eyes. “You okay?” he asks.

No, she’s not okay. He knocked the wind out of her, and for some reason she’s having trouble getting it back.

“Do you mind?” she says finally.

He smirks and rolls off to lay on his back beside her. “I think we need to call it a day,” he says with a sigh.

Hermione agrees.

“What do you have in that bag to treat those wounds?”

While Hermione digs through her bag, Orev insists on setting up the tent himself and putting up the wards.

“Just about everything.” Hermione tries to turn around to look at her shoulder, but she can’t see the deep gash where the dragon’s claw caught her.

“You’re going to have to let me do it,” Orev says. With a deep breath, she nods. It really hurts now. She pulls out bandages and two vials of a healing potion she always keeps ready. One is to drink, the other a salve to apply to the wound. 

She peels off her torn cloak and unclasps her robes. She has trouble getting her right arm out of them, though, and Orev helps her slide it out. Underneath, she’s wearing leggings and a long t-shirt. Blood soaks her t-shirt, and it clings to her back. When Orev pulls the shirt away from the wound, she hisses in pain. 

“You’re lucky,” he says. “A centimeter deeper, and the dragon could have punctured your spinal column. I need you to take off your shirt.”

“No.”

“Don’t worry, Granger, I won’t peek. But you’ve got to let me treat this.”

She sighs and moves to lift the hem of her shirt. But Orev stops her. He moves her hair around to her uninjured left shoulder, then flicks his wand. The tear in the back of the shirt widens. The fabric rips all the way down the back, but stays on her arms. She’s left holding it like a jacket put on backwards. She draws her knees up to her chin.

“Thank you,” she says, realizing he’s tried to save her some embarrassment.

“You are welcome.”

Then Orev unclasps her bra, pushing the straps off to the side. He mutters some enchantment over her wound, pressing his wand tip along it. She feels the skin tighten and pull together. By the time it’s over, she’s gritting her teeth in pain. 

Hermione takes a deep breath. “Where did you learn that?”

“Well, I’ve had plenty of experience removing bras, if that’s what you’re asking.” He dabs the salve over the wound. It cools and soothes her pain.

Hermione flushes, glad he can’t see her face. “No. You know what I mean.”

She can almost hear him smirk.

As the pain leaves her body, so does the tension. Orev’s fingers trailing across her back feel warm and cool all at the same time. But that’s probably the salve doing its work. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to relax. Orev seems to know how good it feels because he lingers ever so slightly as he finishes up at the top of her shoulder. She _almost_ whimpers when he pulls his hand away. _Get a grip, Hermione._

“Now your face.”

“I can do it.” Hermione protests out of habit, but she doesn’t open her eyes.

Orev moves around to face her. He dabs more potion on her face, burnt by the dragon blood and embers. His finger touches her lips as he gets a spot near her mouth.

“There,” he says quietly, “all done.”

Hermione just wants to sleep. Instead she opens her eyes to look into his. “Thank you,” she says again.

He nods. “Thank you for getting the dragon scale.”

“The scale! I forgot it!”

Orev shakes his head. “I picked it up just as you jerked me off my feet. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Hermione sighs again, slouching with her arms holding her shirt firmly to her front. “Who are you, Orev? It’s only fair.”

He inclines his head. “I am Orev, your friendly ‘Lord Protector of the Trees.’ Now, let’s get you to bed, Wren.”

“I can manage.”

Orev helps her anyway, holding her by the waist until she’s steady on her feet. His hands on her bare skin still feel calm and soothing.

 _Oh get a grip, Hermione._ She holds the shirt tightly to her.

“You’ll need to sleep on your stomach tonight,” he says, “to allow the salve time to do its work.”

“Okay. What are you going to do?”

Orev looks up and around into the afternoon sun. “No sense in wasting time. I have a potion to brew.”

For one wild moment, Hermione thinks he’s going to leave. In the next thought, she’s listing all the reasons why she shouldn’t care. _So what if he does leave? He’s caused me nothing but trouble. And he already told me about the caves. As soon as I feel a little better, I can go looking for myself._

Orev walks her to the door of the tent and hands her her robes and cloak. “I’d help you get settled,” he says, “but . . . Rule Number One.”

Hermione smiles. “I’m fine from here. Thanks again.” Then, out of impulse, she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. His stubble is rough against her lips.

Orev stiffens. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t.” _Is that anger in his eyes?_ “The way you’ve been flirting with me since I met you, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Because you know who I am, now?” Her temper is flaring, the tension returning to her body.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I apologize.”

“Oh don’t apologize. I was just thanking you.” She turns and sweeps into the tent, casting her own wards around the inside. She shouldn’t have kissed his cheek. Of course he would take it the wrong way. But she didn’t mean anything by it.

Did she?

No. No, she did not.

But when she lays down on her stomach a few minutes later, she can’t help but remember the way he touched her so carefully, and how soothing it was.

_Get a grip, Hermione._

..

.

..

She’s surprised in the morning to discover Orev is still there. And he’s dug in. The air in front of the tent is full of items floating in the air around him. A cauldron sits within a hot fire. Steam rises out of it in purple spirals.

“Where’d you get a cauldron?” Hermione asks.

Orev doesn’t look up from stirring. “You’re not the only person who knows how to use an Undetectable Extension Charm.”

Refreshed after a good night’s sleep, Hermione feels almost well again. Her shoulder twinges slightly when she moves it, but otherwise she had no trouble getting dressed in fresh clothes. She repaired her robes and cloak. Since Orev knows who she is now, she didn’t bother with the charms to disguise her face.

Orev stirs once clockwise, once counter-clockwise. Then repeats. A piece of silky hair falls down around his chin. The rest is pulled back into a short ponytail. Standing over the cauldron, he reminds her of Professor Snape, who used to peer into her potions looking for a reason to criticize. He looked just like that when he couldn’t find anything wrong with hers.

But Snape is gone, like so many others. She conjures a plush chair and sits in it. Some tea would be good; she should have made it before she left the tent. Then, Hermione is struck by a thought.

“I know you,” she says.

Orev looks up quickly, his face flushed from standing so close to the hot fire. His eyes pierce hers.

“Or I know who you’re related to,” she amends.

“And who is that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were related to Severus Snape? I didn’t think he had any living relatives.”

Orev laughs and nods to her. “Bravo, Wren.”

“You may call me Hermione.”

“I think not.” He leaves the potion to simmer and conjures a wooden chair of his own next to Hermione’s.

“Why not? I call you Orev.”

“Tea?” he asks, summoning a kettle and two cups from somewhere. “I made it just before you woke.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Orev pours some for both of them, then settles into his chair. “I’d offer you sugar and cream, but I’m fresh out.”

She takes a hesitant sip. It’s good, even without cream or sugar. “You act a little like him, you know. Always with the sarcasm.”

He takes a sip of his own. “The potion needs to simmer for a few hours. Hope you weren’t planning on going anywhere today.”

Not to be put off, Hermione continues, “And you look quite a bit like him, actually, now that I recognize the similarities. Cousins, maybe? He didn’t have a brother, did he?”

Orev settles deeper into his chair, gazing out through the trees. With the sun shining overhead, the forest sparkles green and gold.

“Why haven’t you made yourself known? He’s quite famous now, you know. There’s even a fund in his honor. Harry insisted the Ministry make the largest contribution.”

“A fund for what?” Orev hides his interest by taking a sip of tea.

“Orphaned children.”

Orev sputters and sits up, coughing.

“Burn yourself?” Hermione cocks an eyebrow.

“A little,” he snarls. “Why did Harry Potter put that in Severus’ name? Why not his own?”

“Snape was an orphan, too, wasn’t he?”

Orev grimaces. “Not until he was older.”

“I bet you know what he was like as a young man, then, although you’re younger than he was, correct?”

“I’m not going to tell you about Severus Snape’s childhood, so you can just forget that.”

“But now, you see, I’m curious.”

“You would be.” Orev spits out. Then he turns to her. “Severus Snape was a bitter young man. It won’t do to go digging into his past as part of some misplaced desire to understand him.”

“I don’t think it’s misplaced. The wizarding world owes him a great deal.”

“Yeah, well, it won’t do him any good, will it? Go ahead and assuage your guilt, if you must, but Severus Snape will not reap one benefit from it, not where’s he’s at.”

Hermione scoffs. She’s not trying to assuage her guilt. Okay, maybe a little. She did think horrid things of him when she was his student. “Were you close to him?”

“No.”

“Hmm,” she says. She’s not sure if she believes him.

Something moves through the trees at the edge of her vision. Hermione stands and walks around the fire to the edge of the wards. She watches it a moment, waiting for it to get closer. 

A bear? No—it’s brown, but walking on two legs. It has a shock of red at the top. Hermione’s heart skips down into her stomach.

“What is it?” Orev calls.

“Not what— _who_. It’s Charlie Weasley.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh… And now Hermione has only half-guessed the truth. To give her credit, she did watch Severus Snape die right before her eyes. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you’re the reason I’m writing.

“I bet Charlie will know who you are,” Hermione says, “especially if you were in the same year as Bill.”

“No, don’t,” Orev says sharply.

Hermione smiles.

Charlie is walking close to their camp, now. The only reason he hasn’t seen them is because of the wards.

“Really, Wren . . . Hermione. Don’t ask him.”

“Now that you’re so adamant about it, I really want to. Although I was only teasing to begin with.”

Orev mutters something which sounds like: “Self-pleasing little—”

“What?” Hermione arches an eyebrow.

“ _Gryffindor._ ”

Sure Orev was about to say something else, Hermione rolls her eyes and steps out of the wards, right in front of Charlie Weasley. Her appearance is so sudden and unexpected that Charlie reels back in shock. He waves his wand, casting a Shield Charm before Hermione can blink.

“Hey Charlie,” she says.

“Her—Hermione!” Charlie almost drops his wand.

“Sorry about the shock.”

He waves away her apology. “What the _hell_ are you doing here? Are you alright? What’s happened to your hair? Everyone’s been worried sick. _Harry’s_ been worried sick. And Ginny. Every time I hear from her, she talks of nothing else. I only found out they were getting married because of Mum.” He takes a big breath and grabs her shoulders. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

Hermione laughs and puts her hands on his. “I would tell you if you’d let me get a word in.”

“So you’re alright?”

“Yes. I’m alright.”

Charlie sighs and looks her over, just to make sure she isn’t lying. “Give me proof that’s it’s you and not an imposter.”

Hermione understands. He’s shocked enough to wonder if the real Hermione isn’t being imprisoned somewhere and the one standing before him only looks that way because of Polyjuice Potion.

“You gave Harry a pair of dragon-hide gloves for his seventeenth birthday, which I forgot to pack when we left after Death Eaters ruined Bill and Fleur’s wedding.”

Charlie relaxed. “Mum kept those gloves on the mantel, in case Harry had a sudden desire to come back to the Burrow just for them. Speaking of Harry—”

“No! Don’t tell him where I am.”

“What? He needs to know, Hermione.”

Hermione shook her head. “I know he does, but he can’t right now. I don’t want him here.”

Charlie frowns and lets go of her. “Why?”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “Because I’m looking for Ron’s killer.”

Charlie freezes and stiffens at the mention of his youngest brother. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. I’ve heard a report of a Dark wizard prowling these woods for almost a year.”

“Hermione—”

“And loads of Dark wizards have made this area their home for centuries.”

“What report?”

“And I figured if I could just . . .”

“What report?”

“Just a report.”

“ _Whose_?” His eyes are stern.

“A friend’s.”

“A friend’s.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been here for years, you know,” Charlie says. “We get tales of Dark wizards in these parts, yes, but ever since You-Know-Who used the forest between his rises to power, the international wizarding community has been very keen on scouring these woods from time to time, just to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.”

“I know all that. But you would have walked right by me if I hadn’t stepped through my own wards. Don’t you imagine others can do the same thing?”

“And that would make him or her even more dangerous! Have you not thought this through?”

“Of course I have! And I’ve thought that I couldn’t bear it if something happened to Harry, which is why I made sure he couldn’t find me.”

“He’s turned England and Scotland upside down looking for you. Everyone’s just thought you went off your rocker.”

“Are there any witches or wizards you know of that arrived in the last year?”

“If I had, I would have reported them. Don’t you think I want to find Ron’s killer, too?”

“No. I—I know you do. I need you to find a way to tell Harry that I’m safe, without actually telling where I am.”

“That’s asking an awful lot.”

“Please.” Tears well up then. She is mad at herself—she hadn’t meant to cry. And it will hardly convince Charlie that she is up to the task.

But he softens a bit. “The thought of you here all alone, looking for a dangerous criminal, is unthinkable, Hermione.”

“She’s not alone.”

Charlie and Hermione turn. Orev had walked out of the wards.

“Who are you?” Charlie asks, his eyes darting from Orev to Hermione, then back to Orev.

“Charlie, this is Orev. He’s, well, he’s a friend.”

Orev nods. “Charlie Weasley.”

“Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you.”

“What’s going on here, Hermione?” He pauses, a look of comprehension on his face. “He’s the guy who told you about the Dark wizard.”

“It’s not unlikely,” said Orev before Hermione could respond. “I’ve been here for years, too. The International Confederation of Wizards hasn’t found _me_ yet.”

“Years,” Charlie says, plainly not believing him. “What have you been doing here?”

Orev didn’t respond. 

“Let me guess,” says Charlie. “You’re a smuggler. You’re the two imbeciles who injured Norberta.”

Hermione gasps. “ _That_ was Norberta?”

“I only just got her sorted. You’re lucky she didn’t tear you apart. Why did you need a dragon scale?”

Orev says, “ _Norberta_? Is she some kind of prize dragon?”

“Sort of,” Hermione says. “Hagrid hatched her in his hut during our first year. We smuggled her from the top of the Astronomy Tower one night so Charlie’s friends could pick her up. Only her name was Norbert then. Oh the trouble we got into with Professor Snape.”

Orev snorts, then chuckles, then laughs outright. Charlie raises an eyebrow in offense. Hermione flushes. Is he laughing at her?

Orev holds up his hand as if to stop himself, then begins laughing all over again.

“I’m glad you find us so amusing,” says Charlie.

But Orev laughs harder, doubled over with his hands on his knees, shoulders shaking. Hermione almost shares who Orev was related to, but remembers how adamant he had been about not revealing his identity. Orev’s laughter is almost enough to make her ignore his request.

Orev wipes his tears and straightens. “Forgive me, forgive me.” He composes himself, but is unable to completely remove the smirk on his face.

Charlie looks disgusted. “Right, well, I better be off. I won’t report your smuggling, Orev, simply because I have more respect for Hermione than that. Hermione, a word?”

They walk off a ways together. When they stop, Charlie peers around with his wand up. “You don’t have any more friends hiding in plain sight, do you?”

Hermione shakes her head.

“Look, I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking, or why you’re with that man. But I want you to be careful.”

“I’m always careful.” _Except when I’m hexing dragons._

“No, really, Hermione. Something about that guy isn’t right.”

“You mean the laughing? I admit he’s a little odd.”

“No, not exactly the laughing. He looks like someone, I just can’t think who at the moment.”

“I know who.”

“You do?”

Hermione glances through the trees at Orev. As she watches, he turns on his heel and walks back into the wards. “We’re helping each other. He knows these woods, Charlie, probably as well as you do.”

“I’ve never seen him.”

“He keeps to himself, I think. Look, if I promise to get away from him at the first sign that something isn’t right, will you get my message to Harry—without telling him where I am?”

“Just tell me who he is.”

“I can’t.” But she hasn’t really promised Orev anything. Maybe it would’t hurt to have Charlie ask around, find out exactly how Orev is related to Severus Snape. Finally, she settles on something. “He’s related to a wizard who fought in the War. He says he did, too, but I never met him until I got here.”

“Which wizard?”

“That’s the part I can’t say. But . . . his relative was a teacher at Hogwarts for a long time.” She’s hoping Charlie will fill in the blanks on his own.

Charlie frowns, then a glimmer of recognition lights his eyes. “Really? He does look like him, though, sort of. Not so severe.”

Hermione nods.

“Are you sure he’s . . . safe?”

“I think so.”

Charlie shakes his head and pulls her into a hug. The contact is nice. Hermione hugs him back. She’s never been around Charlie as much as she has the other Weasleys, but he exudes the same warmth that the whole family is blessed with.

Except maybe Percy. 

“I don’t know about this, Hermione,” he says when he lets go.

“I’m alright, really. I just need to do this.”

“Do you really think Ron’s killer is hiding in here?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“Then let me help you.”

“You can, by finding a way to tell everyone else I’m okay without revealing where I am.”

“I’m not going to let this go.”

“I know. Please be careful.”

Charlie nods. “I’ll make some inquiries, of course. I really don’t think any Dark wizard could be hiding in here that long without someone having found him. _That’s_ why I’m going to leave you alone for now.”

Hermione is a little stung—he doesn’t believe her. “Do you think I’m off my rocker, like everybody else does?”

“No, I can see you’re in your right mind. But please let me check on you now and again? Don’t disappear completely.”

“Alright, Charlie. I won’t.”

As Hermione walks back to camp on her own, she remembers how good it feels to be held by a friend, and to have a family. Whatever Charlie Weasley said, Hermione knows she was right about this forest. And she isn’t going to stop until she finds the person who ruined her life.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

“What was that all about?” Hermione asks as she walks back into camp.

“The two of you, talking about a dragon like it’s a pet rabbit.” Orev is leaning over his potion again. He smirks then looks over at Hermione.

But Hermione is determined to figure him out. Orev seems to delight in letting her know he has a secret while refusing to reveal it. Apparently he enjoys irritating people and making them cross. Which only makes Hermione more irritated and more cross when she thinks about it.

“You seemed willing to tell Charlie Weasley an awful lot about what you were doing,” Orev says. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know?”

Hermione shrugs. She didn’t, either. Everything just sort of spilled out of her before she could stop it, like trying to hold water in the palm of her hand. In retrospect, she regrets it a little. But at least Charlie is going to find out more about the man standing in front of her.

“So is your name Orev Snape?” she asks, wanting to turn the conversation from herself.

“You want to know if my last name is Snape—so you can tell Charlie Weasley?”

“Oh come off it, I’m just curious about who I’m trusting my life to. That doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.”

“You are correct: it’s not.”

Orev stirs the potion another turn and then leaves the cauldron. “It needs to be left alone the rest of the day. But I’m not willing to just walk off and leave it. Why don’t we plan our next step?”

“You mean you’re still going to help me if this potion works?”

“That is part of the deal, Wren.” He pulls a map from his robes and goes to sit down in his wooden chair. 

Hermione goes to sit beside him in her own chair. The afternoon is warm, and the chairs are too close to the fire. Without thought, she pulls off her robes and lets them drape around her in the chair. She’s wearing another pair of leggings (jeans are always too hot beneath robes) and a long shirt underneath. She’s not wearing a bra because of her wound.

Orev stares at her at her for a half-moment then looks away.

“What?” she says. A quick glance down to make sure she’s not all nipple-y or anything embarrassing. Nope, she’s good.

“I didn’t say anything,” Orev says.

“But you’re thinking it. Go on, then.”

He looks at her again. “Most older witches and wizards who grew up as such don’t wear Muggle clothes underneath their robes. You know this, right?”

Hermione smirks. “Is that an insult about my status as a Muggleborn?”

“No, I don’t care about that.”

“Well why bring it up?”

Orev shrugs. “Just an observation.”

“I tried it years ago.”

 “And?”

“I don’t feel quite dressed when I’m just wearing robes.”

“Ah,” is all he says. He looks amused again, enjoying some private joke at her expense, no doubt.

“You didn’t answer my question about your name.”

Orev cocks an eyebrow. 

“Just an observation.”

“And I don’t mean to answer it. Do you want to catch this wizard or not?”

She does, and they spend the next few hours plotting locations on the map. Orev already knows the locations of most of the higher caves, and he draws routes from each one to the next. The potion bubbles in front of them. As they sit, the afternoon sun falls downward in the sky, finally sinking behind the mountains. The air turns cooler, and Hermione pulls her robes back around her before getting up to make some tea.

“You won’t need me to help you Apparate up to those caves if this potion works,” she says.

“Right.”

She hands Orev his tea and nods to the cauldron. “How long before it’s ready?”

“Another hour before I add the dragon scale. Then it has to simmer overnight. I should be able to try it in the morning, if everything goes according to plan.”

“And what if it doesn’t go according to plan? What if you made a mistake? Are you going to make me go out there and get you another dragon scale?”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

He looks up at Hermione, his eyes lingering on hers. When Orev isn’t smirking, he’s pleasant enough to look at. His eyes are older than his face, however, and Hermione wonders what they’ve seen.

“This isn’t my first test. Just my first test with a dragon scale,” he says. He looks away to sip his tea. Hermione sits back down.

“Will you tell me what’s in it?”

“Yes.” Orev spends the next hour explaining everything he’s tried, the steps he’s taken to determine he needed a dragon scale, and his scouring of the forest for rare ingredients.

“I’m surprised you’re willing to tell me all that,” Hermione says when he’s done.

He stands to check the potion. “How can you help me if you don’t know what I’ve already done?”

“But you don’t know me. Oh, you know my name and what you’ve seen in the papers, but how do you know I won’t just eff it up?”

“It didn’t seem likely that you’d carry around a personal library of Healing books without knowing what to do with the information in them.”

“I _do_ enjoy it, mostly.”

“Let me guess: star pupil in Potions.”

“Ha. I wanted to be. Snape was always looking for a reason to criticize my potions. But it just made me work harder.”

“So you’re saying it’s his fault you excelled.”

“He was a nasty git.” Hermione shoots a glance at Orev, who’s frowning. “Sorry, I guess it’s not good manners to speak ill of the dead.”

“Don’t apologize. Your summation is accurate.” He stirs the potion once more, adjusts the fire again, then casts a Shield Charm over the top, so nothing will inadvertently fall into or change the potion.

“So you two didn’t get along.”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. We didn’t know each other very well.”

Hermione waits, hoping he’ll elaborate.

He doesn’t.

They eat a supper of dried rations, then sit in front of the fire in silence. Hermione considers pulling out some more books, but she’s tired, and her shoulder is beginning to ache again. She sits up off it gingerly.

“Is it bothering you?” Orev asks, seeing her adjust herself in her seat.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want me to . . .?”

Yes, she wants him to put more salve on it. She likes the thought of his cool fingers running across her wound, leaving a trail of soothing warmth along her skin. Warmth spreads to Hermione’s cheeks as she realizes it’s not the salve she wants.

_Oh, Hermione, you’ve been out on your own too long._

“Unless you don’t want me too,” Orev says.

Hermione takes the comment like a dare, even though that’s probably not how he meant it.

“Umm. No, that’s fine. I don’t mind you doing it.” It would be silly for her to object; the wound needs to heal as quickly as possible, especially if they are going wizard hunting in the next day or so.

This time, she shivers when she removes her robes. Her skin tingles in the cool air. Actually, the air alone is enough to soothe her wound.

And restore her common sense.

In the first place, he’s only trying to help. In the second, it’s his fault she’s wounded. Really that should be in first place. In the third . . .

“Wren.”

Hermione looks over at Orev, her thoughts scattering.

“Do you want me to ruin another shirt? Or are you going to take this one off on your own?”

“Oh.” Feeling her face flush for real now, she pulls her shirt up at the back and pulls it over her head, leaving it on her arms. She’s not wearing a bra, after all.

Orev summons the salve and begins to work it into her wound. It’s probably just her imagination that he takes longer tonight than he did last night. She closes her eyes and enjoys the feeling of skin on skin contact, even if he is a crazy wizard she just met a couple of days ago.

The practical part of Hermione’s brain protests for her: _Sad. So sad, Hermione. He’s ten years older than you._ _Have you forgotten Ron so easily?_

A familiar weight sinks into her chest when she thinks about Ron. No, she hasn’t forgotten him—she never will. Should she feel guilty about spending time with another man, even if it means nothing? Maybe, but guilt requires a lot of energy, and she can’t seem to summon any of it at the moment.

“Hey,” Orev says, his hand stopping.

Hermione eyes flutter open. “Yes?”

“Don’t go to sleep there. You’d have to sleep out here all night—I’m not allowed to take you into your tent.”

“I’m not asleep. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Ron,” she whispers.

Orev gets more salve and goes back to working it into her skin. He’s quiet a moment, then says, “You are allowed to go on with your life, you know.”

It’s like he’s guessing her thoughts. She stiffens ever so slightly. “Are you . . .?”

“No, I’m not using Legilimency. I’m not a fool. It’s obvious you’re still grieving.”

“Where did you learn Legilimency? From Snape?”

“We are talking about you.”

“Would you take me into my tent if I fell asleep? If you were allowed in there, I mean.”

Orev sniffs. Her skin has absorbed the salve completely, but he doesn’t break contact. “You must be hard up for human contact if you’re asking that.”

“No need to be insulting.”

“Yes. I would take you into your tent. No sense in both of us sleeping out in the open.”

“Oh. That’s kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says wryly. Orev breaks contact and goes to check on the potion. Hermione uses the opportunity to get her shirt on and pull her robes about her.

.

..

.

Later, she dreams again of Ron. This time he’s dressed like Snape in black robes, asking her why the potion isn’t working.

 _What potion?_ she asks.

_The potion you gave me to keep me safe._

_I forgot to make it._ Hermione cries, begging him to forgive her. Ron towers over her, accusing her of killing him. 

_I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Ron. Please let me make it. I’ll make the potion now._

_It’s too late, Hermione._

She sees that it is too late. He’s lying on the castle floor now, his arm missing, his neck shriveling up before her eyes. _Hermione,_ he says once more.

“Hermione!”

Hermione wakes with a jolt. The tent is still dark. She fumbles around for her wand, but seems to have misplaced it. Blankets are tangled around her body.

 _“Lumos,_ ” Orev says. His light shines just outside the tent. “I’m coming in unless you tell me not to.”

She stops trying to untangle herself and makes sure she’s covered instead. Orev walks into the tent, his lighted wand temporarily blinding her. He stops just inside the door, a frown on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Did I wake you?”

“I wasn’t asleep.” He looks at her a minute, as if trying to decide something. “You were crying.”

Hermione reaches up to feel her face. It’s wet. “Haven’t you ever heard someone cry before?” She regrets the snark as soon as it leaves her lips. But she can’t take it back.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Do you want a Potion for Dreamless Sleep?”

“No, thank you,” she whispers. She wants Ron. Or to stop dreaming about Ron if she can’t have him. “Can you just stay for a minute? To get my mind off it? I’ll be alright then.”

Orev hesitates a moment before sitting at the table. He’s not very close, but she can see dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there earlier. In the pale white light of his wand, he looks more like Severus Snape than he does in daylight. She pushes the thought aside, uncomfortable with thinking of Snape alone with her in her tent.

“Well, that’s Rule Number One gone,” he says half-jokingly.

“Thank you.”

Orev dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

“You don’t like gratitude, do you?”

“It’s not necessary. Do you always have bad dreams?”

“No, not always.”

She knows why she had one tonight. She was feeling guilty about Ron, of course. But she isn’t feeling guilty about Orev here with her in the tent, and she thought she should. Why though? What is a tent anyway? Walls of fabric—an illusion of protection.

Hermione lays down on her side so she can see him sitting at the table. “Do you want to sleep in one of the bunks? I’m sorry I didn’t let you before.”

“You didn’t know me before. You don’t know me now. But I’m perfectly happy outside, despite all my teasing about it. Don’t worry yourself.” His voice is low and soft. Soothing, just like his hands. Right now, Hermione doesn’t feel embarrassed thinking about his hands, now that her blushes are protected by darkness.

Orev’s presence is soothing, too, like somehow he’s shouldering part of the burden leftover from the dream.

“Are you anxious to try your Potion?”

“Yes. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Are you worried about what to do if it doesn’t work?”

“Not yet. There’s time for that tomorrow.”

They are silent for a long time. Hermione empties her mind, deciding to meditate on the quiet rather than worry about going back to sleep. After a while, Orev’s head begins to nod. He props it on his hand and closes his eyes. She doesn’t say anything, just watches him fall softly into sleep. His hair comes loose from the ponytail and falls down around his face.

“Orev,” she says.

“Hmmm?” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

“Take a bunk, really, I don’t mind.”

Orev presses his hands to his eyes and sighs. Then he drops them and looks at her. For one wild moment, Hermione thinks of asking him to sit beside her on the bed, to hold her for a little while. In the next moment, she marvels at her own bold ideas.

“It’s no use,” he says.

“What is?” she asks, hoping he hasn’t guessed her thoughts.

“The potion’s not going to work.”

“Yes, it will.”

“There’s no sense in entertaining wishful thinking.”

“You shouldn’t dismiss it until you’ve tried it.”

Orev stands. She expects him to leave. But instead he walks over to the bed. He props one hand on the bunk above and looks down at her. “What makes you so sure?” His voice is painfully hopeful, like a little boy who asks for a puppy every Christmas but knows he’ll be disappointed.

Hermione sits up. “I’m not, but we’ll know in a few hours, won’t we?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Yes, we will.”

He leans down a fraction of an inch, bringing himself closer to her. Then he changes his mind. “Goodnight, Wren,” he whispers.

“Goodnight, Orev.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for all of you who have reviewed so far. THANK YOU. :)

 

In the pale light of the next morning, Hermione feels awkward as she leaves her tent. She let her weariness get the better of her last night. And now she’s hoping Orev doesn’t read anything into it. He’s nice enough. But like he said again last night, she doesn’t know him. And they need to maintain a professional relationship.

She wonders at her instant friendship with Orev. It’s not the first time she’s had one, of course. Some people are just meant to be close, as if their spirits are tied together by an unseen rope, a rope that is only thickens and strengthens as time goes on. Hermione felt that way about Harry and Ron when they were all kids, even if they didn’t see it at first. 

And when the rope is severed? What then? What do you do with the end that is still attached to your spirit?

She sighs.

Orev affords her only a tiny glance. He’s carefully measuring out a dosage of the potion in to a vial. 

“Don’t be nervous,” she says because _she’s_ nervous. This could go wrong in so many ways.

Orev scoffs. “I’m not nervous.”

He lifts the vial to his nose and sniffs. “Well, here goes.” Then he pauses to look at Hermione. “Better stand back.”

Hermione backs up, then gets out her wand for good measure, ready to do some quick spellwork if he’s injured. “Do you have a bezoar close by?”

Orev pulls one out of his pocket and holds it out for Hermione. She goes to get it, then retreats back to her position several feet away, holding her breath.

_If this works, he may decide to leave._

_I don’t care._

Then, without ceremony, Orev dumps the concoction into his mouth and swallows. It must taste nasty, because he grimaces.

Nothing happens.

At least he’s not breaking out into boils or writhing on the ground in agony. That’s something, anyway.

“How long will it take to work?” she asks.

“It should already be working.”

“Do you feel . . . different?”

“No.” He holds his hands in front of his face, looking at them. “Well, maybe a tingling.”

Hermione takes a step for him, ready to intervene.

“No! Stay back,” he says sharply. He grimaces again, like the potion’s sticking to the roof of his mouth. He bends over, gasping.

“Orev!”

He holds up a hand. “I’m alright.” But he doesn’t straighten. Instead he grabs the hood of his cloak and pulls it over his head, turns on his heel, and leaves the camp.

Confused, Hermione begins to follow after him.

He must have heard her. “Don’t follow me,” he says. “I’ll be back.”

But Orev’s departure is so strange and sudden, Hermione can’t help but worry he’s become ill. She dithers on the spot for a few minutes, watching him walk through the trees, his hood still pulled down over his face.

Did the potion transfigure him in some way? If it did, she can’t think why he wouldn’t want her to see. Is he that prideful?

Pride or not, Orev couldn’t be left alone. What if the potion’s side effects only worsened with time? Making up her mind, Hermione casts a Silencing Charm on her feet, a Disillusionment Charm on her body, and follows after Orev. She can still see him striding through the trees.

She follows him for almost thirty minutes, over rocks and bramble, through thickets of thorns. He swipes them away with his wand, the gesture angry and hurried.

Hermione hears the waterfall before she sees it. Orev disappears behind an outcropping of rocks. When she gets there, she looks down on him at the base of the falls, wading into the deep pool there. He hadn’t bothered to remove his clothes. She shivers just watching him—the mountain water must be icy cold.

_Well, if he wants to drown, fine by me._

But Hermione edges down to the far bank, anyway, and sits beneath a tree at the edge of the pool, just to be sure he isn’t going to have some sort of attack in the water. Orev faces the waterfall and dunks himself under, then rises up out of it, water streaming off his clothes. His hood falls down. His dark hair is plastered to his head.

He turns, wiping water from his eyes.

From this distance, Hermione thinks he looks different. A shift, perhaps, in his face. It looks paler. But that’s probably because of the cold water. For the life of her, she can’t understand his sudden desire to bathe. Unless the potion was burning him in some way? Why didn’t he just cast Aguamenti or something similar?

Whatever the reason, Orev seems relieved as he wades back to the bank. He takes out his wand and casts a charm to dry his clothes. Then he walks around the edge of the pool, drawing closer to the spot where Hermione is sitting. The closer he gets, the more guilty she feels about being here. Obviously he’s okay. But she daren’t move in case he detects her.

She looks around to make sure he has room to walk in front of her, because he seems to want to be on this side of the pool. She looks back at him. He’s closer, now. With his hair still plastered around his face, it looks greasy, stringy. It looks . . .

“ _Son of Merlin_ ,” she says aloud. 

Orev hears her and starts, looking around for the speaker. “Wren?”

She staggers to her feet, turns on her heel, and Disapparates back to camp with a soft _pop._

Hermione almost misses the camp, almost _splinches_ herself in her anger.

Orev is _Severus bloody Snape_.

 _How_ did she not see this? He was using a Glamor Charm, obviously, just like she had, but, but . . .

The questions all jumble together in her mind and she can’t articulate which ones she wants to ask first. She paces in front of the tent, trying to make some sense of her thoughts.

The dragon-scale Potion must have countered his Glamor, which is why he’d put his hood on and run off. The Glamor must have been powerful enough to even disguise his wand.

 _Why_ hadn’t he told her who he was?

He’s made a bloody fool of her, pretending to be his own relation. Hermione’s ears pound in anger.

How is he still alive? The question hits her with the force of a well-cast Expelliarmus, and she stops pacing. She _watched Severus Snape_ _die_.

She watched him bleed to death after being attacked by Voldemort’s snake, Nagini.

Didn’t she?

So maybe that man is not really Severus Snape. Maybe he’s an imposter?

She laughs at her own foolish idea. How would anyone achieve that? And why would a wizard go to all the trouble to disguise himself as a dead War hero, only to turn and disguise himself with a Glamor?

Hermione turns to look at the camp. The rest of the dragon-scale potion is still in the cauldron. Without losing another minute, she waves her wand at the tent. It begins folding itself away. Then she conjures several vials and measures the potion into each one. Whatever it did, it was great at unmasking Glamor Charms. No sense in wasting it.

Now that she thinks of it, the dragon scale must have significant, hitherto unknown, powers for counteracting certain types of charms. When she’d been covered in dragon blood, hadn’t she lost her own Glamor?

Hermione files away the discovery for later, then concentrates on getting out of camp before Orev—bloody _Snape, his name is Snape_ —returns. She’s just shrinking the tent when she hears him running through the trees. Obviously he still can’t Apparate.

Her ears burn with shame. She’d thought he was _nice._ And she liked it when he _touched her_. Hermione shivers.

“Hermione—,” Snape begins as soon as he’s within earshot.

“ _Don’t call me that!_ ” she snarls. Hermione shoves the tent into her bag, then double-checks that she’s packed everything. She glares at Snape. The only reason she hasn’t Disapparated yet is to make sure he understands just how angry he’s made her.

Snape draws up short, stopping with enough distance between them to head off any hexes. _And well he should_. 

He hasn’t bothered to recast the Glamor Charm—she can see him for who he really is now. He’s older looking than he was before, with lines at his eyes. His nose is longer, skin paler, jaw less square.

Snape holds up his hands as if in defense. But Hermione notes he’s not carrying his wand. And she also notes, with little satisfaction, that Severus Snape is powerful enough to hex her without a wand in his hand. She’s standing in front of a wizard with practically the same magical ability as Voldemort himself.

“ _Why_?” she asks, unable to stand his silence.

Snape is still puffing from his run. Realizing she’s not going to hex him, he puts his hands down and tries to catch his breath.

He can’t know Hermione is still trying to decide which hex to use. Maybe a hex is too good for him. Sectumsempra? No, not painful enough. But then that’s _his_ curse, isn’t it? And he would have known it was her while she was grappling with the dragon, before her Glamor fell off. The thought makes her sick.

“I wasn’t trying to fool you,” Snape begins, his breathing somewhat in check.

 _“Ha!_ What else were you trying to do?”

“I mean, I wasn’t trying to _make_ a fool of you.”

“Well you certainly managed it, didn’t you?”

“No, you aren’t the fool. I’m the fool—I should have disappeared right after I found out who you were.”

Somehow Severus Snape admitting to being foolish disarms Hermione. It’s the closest thing to an apology she’s ever heard from him.

Except when _Orev_ apologized for flirting with her. 

 _Ugh._ She should have known.

“And when, exactly, was that?” Hermione asks, to keep the conversation going, to keep herself from killing him on the spot.

“At first it was just a hunch. It only grew stronger when we were dragon-hunting. I knew for sure when you used my own curse to sever the scale from the dragon. Did Potter teach it to you?”

She nods. “He didn’t know it was yours until later, of course.” Hermione’s voice gets quieter as she speaks. Suddenly, despite her anger, she truly realizes who she’s talking to. Memories of Hogwarts spring to mind, images of a snarky Potions professor, someone who tried his best to make their lives miserable, all while living a miserable existence himself. And then the way he died . . .

Snape runs his fingers through his long hair, which is finally almost dry. The sudden movement makes Hermione twitch. Snape stops, his eyes flicking from her face to her wand.

“I guess I have a lot to explain,” he says.

“What makes you think I want to hear it?”

Snape smirks. “If there’s anything I know about you, Miss Granger, it’s your insufferable refusal to walk away from a mystery.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

Snape sweeps his eyes over Hermione’s beaded bag, the empty campsite, the wand still in her hand. “So you were just going to leave after discovering who I really am. And you were going to steal my potion. Is that all you are now, Granger: an oath-breaker and a thief?”

“I’m not going to let you goad me into an argument.”

“Oh you were going to argue? When the facts are right in front of me? Please, let’s see how you play this out.”

Hermione sighs and stops pointing her wand at Snape. “Okay, okay. I left some of the potion for you,” she grumbles. She summons two vials where she’d left them at the base of the tree.

Snape intercepts them and places them in his pocket. “And our deal?” he asks.

“You’re serious.”

“We agreed to help each other. Both of us knew up front that the other was hiding something. The terms have not changed.”

“So far, I’m the only one who’s tried to hold up my end.”

Snape nods. “Well then, shall we?” He steps back and motions for her to go ahead, as if they’ll just pick up their search as planned.

Hermione’s nostrils flare. “Don’t push it, Snape. I’m still thinking about hexing you.”

“And now that you’ve told me, you are less likely to do it, I think.” Snape waves his hand, and their two chairs appear side by side next to the cold fire pit—one wooden, one comfy.

Hermione waves her wand, and transfigures the comfy one into another wooden one. Then she pulls her chair apart from his, just out of arm’s reach.

Snape sits down first, the wooden chair creaking as he sinks into it. But he doesn’t offer any information. He just sits and looks at her. If he thinks she’s going to start the conversation, he’s dead wrong.

Finally, Hermione sits down, too, her chair angled so she can see him as well as the ashes of the fire. She points her wand at the remaining charred logs and they burst into flames.

“It’s a little warm for a fire, isn’t it?” Snape asks.

Hermione ignores him, watching the flames lick up the wood, which crackles and pops. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asks.

“You said you had a lot of explaining to do. I’m waiting.”

Snape smirks, not unkindly. “Shall I tell you how I didn’t die first, or why I’m here in this forest?”

“Whichever you feel is best.” She crosses her arms and stares at him. “Surprise me.”

“In that case, I shall start with neither. Do you remember a few years ago when Dumbledore reinstated the Order of the Phoenix? Yes, of course you do . . . How old were you then?”

“Fifteen, I think. It was right after Voldemort killed Cedric Diggory.”

Snape winced. “Miss Granger: Albus Dumbledore may have been comfortable saying that name any time he wished, and even passed on the foolishness to Potter, but I associate it with some very bad memories that neither one of them could imagine in their most terrifying of nightmares.”

Hermione nods. It is no different out in the larger wizarding community. Years after Voldemort’s defeat, his name still brings terror and fear to those who speak it, perhaps more so than before the Battle of Hogwarts.

“That’s a grim smile if I ever saw one,” Snape says. “Something wrong?”

She clears her throat and says, “I was just thinking: Vold—, I mean, You-Know-Who, wanted to live forever, and he wanted power. He achieved it after all, in a way. His name still holds power over people’s hearts, whether they say it aloud or not.”

Snape frowns. “You are correct.”

“Still, I should think you, of all people . . .” Hermione trails off, not sure if what she was going to say would offend him.

“Me of all people . . . what?”

She takes a deep breath and plunges on. “That you would have more right to use his name than anybody, as often as you deceived him. Not many got away with that.”

“No one else got away with that.”

“Is that why you’re here? You really are tracking down ex-Death Eaters?”

“Yes. But that’s not where I was going to begin. When you were fifteen, I was returning to the Dark Lord’s side—”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Elevate him to some sort of position by calling him a Lord.”

Snape sighs. “Are you ever going to let me tell my story? Because now I really want to, Granger, since you are making it so difficult.”

Hermione has to stop from smiling, reminding herself that she’s still mad at him. She gives him a curt nod. “Continue.”

“ _Thank you_. So, when I rejoined _You-Know-Who_ ”—here Snape throws Hermione an exasperated look—“I knew that I would likely die. This is not news to you, I’m sure. I even wrote out a will and passed it to Dumbledore for safe-keeping.

“And then I was surprised: I lived, much longer than I expected. And I kept getting away with it. So I let _You-Know-Who_ ”—he says again with an emphasizing glare—“teach me more Dark Magic. Which only made me stronger, of course. And less likely to die. And then I thought: _Maybe you’re going to make it to the end, after all._ So I decided to try to live.

“I’m not sure why the urge to survive hit me so strongly. I’d always loathed living, in so many ways. Maybe it had something to do with . . .” Snape falls into silence, his gaze drifting off into the forest, looking at something only he could see.

Hermione thought she knew what he was thinking. “To do with . . . Lily?”

Snape nods, his attention snapping back to Hermione and his story. “Yes, maybe. Or maybe I’d just spent so much of my life consumed with my own trouble that I decided it would be nice to finally see _You-Know-Who_ die a horrible death, to make up for causing me to be miserable. If I were released from him, maybe I would be released from myself.

“Do you also remember when Arthur Weasley was attacked by Nagini? No, don’t say anything, just nod. I don’t want to be interrupted again.”

Hermione nods, too entranced by his storytelling to think of being offended.

“No one but Arthur Weasley himself knew that I was the one who helped the Healers brew a potion to negate the effects of the snake’s venom. And the Healers didn’t know who I was, either, thanks to another Glamor.”

Hermione mouth drops open. “So you kept some for yourself.”

“Well, no, it didn’t occur to me then. Partly because I hadn’t anticipated living very long. But later, after I decided I _wanted_ to live, I brewed more and always kept a fresh batch on my person. It seemed like useless insurance, but I figured _what the hell_ , at least that’s one death I won’t have to fear.”

Hermione waited, breathless.

“That night in the Shack, I was so surprised to see you and Potter and Weasley appear that I forgot to go for the antidote. And of course I was bleeding more than I’d ever imagined was possible while still being conscious. And well, you know what happened next.”

“I’d like to ask you something about that,” Hermione says.

Snape pauses his story, his silence giving her permission to continue.

“Had you always planned on telling Harry? About his mum?”

Snape straightens in his seat. He’s silent so long Hermione thinks he’s going to ignore her question.

Then he says, “No, I hadn’t planned on telling him. But then, when I thought I really was going to die, because I was bleeding so badly and none of you lot knew what to do, that changed. Suddenly I didn’t want to die without _someone_ knowing the truth about me.

“I’d worked so hard to keep it secret, even though I didn’t want the secret to begin with. If I died, it didn’t need to be secret anymore. Of course, by telling Potter, it ensured _everyone_ knew about it. He couldn’t keep it to himself.” Snape let a little bitterness show through at this last statement.

“You talk about all this very matter-of-factly.”

“I’ve had some time to think about it, or didn’t you know?”

“But you didn’t take the potion, you died . . . I _saw_ you.”

Snape nods. “Surprise,” he says dryly.

“. . . and I remember thinking then,” Hermione continues, “that if I’d known a bit more, maybe I could have saved you.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “Why? You thought I was a Death Eater and a murderer. Why would you want me saved?”

Hermione blinks. “I never ever wanted to see anyone die again. And at the time, even though he didn’t know the truth, Harry didn’t enjoy watching you die. I hope you know that.”

Snape’s eyes turn cold, and Hermione knows he doesn’t believe her. But then: “There’s a moment,” he says softly, almost to himself, “between losing your grip on life, and actually dying. Like your body knows it’s dying and has already decided to do it, but your soul is still working out that it’s time to go. That’s where I was when you left the Shack.”

“And then?”

“Fawkes.”

“The _phoenix_?”

“I don’t know what he saw in Dumbledore, or where he’d been since the old man’s death, but he turned up.”

“And so he . . .”

Snape nods. “A single tear in each wound. It healed, despite the venom. Much to my own surprise, my soul decided to stay. And when I came around, the bird was still standing there next to me, like he wanted to be sure it had worked. Then I took the antivenin, just for good measure, and he flew off. I haven’t seen him since.”

Hermione’s head reels with all this new information, and she doesn’t know whether to smile at Snape’s storytelling abilities, or cry at the fact that her former Potions professor has just told her the most magical and romantic story she’s ever heard.

She decides to do neither, and asks another question. “Why didn’t you make yourself known? You had plenty of chances. Most people believe Harry’s story about you, you know. And the ones that don’t have good enough sense not to express their opinions in public.”

“When I woke, I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind. I stumbled out of the Shack, thinking I’d nearly died in there—again!—and hid in the forest. Are you saying I should have stayed to fight?”

“What? No! I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“I have,” he says grimly. “And I did. In fact, I was rallying myself to rush into the Castle, defend it with my last breath, as it were, when I heard the unmistakable sounds of triumph coming from the Great Hall. I was too late to do anything, so I retreated back into the forest.

“But since then, being dead has been very useful. No one bothers me, I live life as I choose, without obligating myself to anybody. I like it. For the first time in my life, I’m free.”

“But you’re not, or you wouldn’t be stamping around this forest, looking for ex-Death Eaters.”

“Ah, well, that has advantages I don’t care to explain right this minute.”

Hermione flushes, although she doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the wry smile growing on his face. He really looks nicer when he does that.

“So, um, apart from the Disapparating,” she says, “do you have any other lingering effects from your injury?”

“No, just that one. The scars are hideous, though, or haven’t you noticed?”

No, she hasn’t. She was so concerned with discovering Orev was Severus Snape, and then listening to his story, she hadn’t chanced a look. Now that her mind is on it though, she can’t help but glance at his neck. He shouldn’t mind; he’s the one who drew attention to it, after all.

Snape’s robes cover the bottom scar. The other is just under his chin, which is why she hasn’t noticed it yet. It’s a large circular scar, raised above the skin around it. It’s pinker than his pale face. 

“So have I explained everything to your satisfaction, Miss Granger?” he asks, drawing her eyes back up to his.

“Yes. And I don’t even know where to begin expressing how . . . shocked . . . I am at it all. I don’t think I’ve ever been so surprised in my life. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The hint of a sneer returns to Snape’s face, and suddenly he reminds her again of her old Potions professor. “Why would I?”

“Well, I mean, we were both on the same side, in the War. You were in the Order. I may not have officially been in it, but I think it’s safe to say I did my share to contribute. And if anybody would want to learn you were alive, it would be some of the remaining Order members.”

Snape scoffs. “Least of all them. They felt I betrayed them, too, after I kept my promise to Dumbledore. And that’s not something people easily get over. Besides,” he says, leaning forward in his seat, intense and dark and careful all at the same time, “there’s not many of them left. Let them live in peace. I’m glad about the way things have turned out.”

“Are you really?”

“And so are you.”

“No I’m not.”

“But you will be. Wren . . . er, can I still call you that?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“Okay, Miss Granger, take some advice from me without reading anything else into it: The hurt you are going through now will pass, but only if you let it.”

Hermione breathes deeply, trying to keep the tears at bay. He is right, of course, and she pushes aside the inkling that Snape might not be a nasty git and thinks about what advice she would give to another person in her shoes.

She would tell them to not let their grief ruin their lives. To not stall the healing process by looking for someone to blame. But it seems impossible to let go when you’re the one experiencing the grief.

“That’s just the thing, Prof—er, hmm . . .”

“Call me Severus. Or Orev, or _nasty git_. I’ve been called worse.”

“Oh no! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did. I don’t blame you. It’s exactly how I wanted you to feel about me when you were a student.”

“But not now?” she blurts before she can stop herself.

“Why would I now?” Severus stands and walks around the fire to stretch his legs. As they’ve been talking, the sun has worked its way down the sky. It is late afternoon.

Hermione shrugs. “I really didn’t think you’d changed your opinion of me. I’m still best friends with Harry Potter.”

“I’ll forgive you for that, I suppose. Tell me what you were going to say.”

“I was just going to say, that part of me doesn’t want to let go of Ron. Like I’m betraying his memory or something. Yes, I realize it’s all very _textbook_ and cliche, but there you have it. There’s a reason grief is even in the textbook, after all: because it’s irrational, despite the fact that everybody goes through it at some point or other.”

“And you’ve had to deal with more grief than people twice your age.”

“And you.”

“No.” Severus stops circling the fire and shakes his head. “Not me. Not like you have.”

Hermione wonders what he means by this, but she doesn’t feel like pressing him any further at the moment.

“So,” he says, back to business, “what about our bargain?”

“Can you really help me find Ron’s killer?”

“If that’s what you wish, then yes.”

“But I don't know if I can really help _you_.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, well, I don’t know what I could tell you that you don’t already know.”

“At the risk of sounding like an overenthusiastic teacher, I’ll thank you not to underestimate yourself, Granger. I’ve seen what you can do. And I know you haven’t been idle in recent years. If I say you can help, you can help.”

His confidence in her is reassuring. No, more than that, it’s _motivating_. The anger she felt a few hours ago is gone, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose that only comes from wanting to help someone else.

She’s going to help Severus Snape restore his power, or her name isn’t Hermione Granger. She stands to face Severus. 

“Well, what are we waiting for?” she asks.

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

“I don’t want to show you this, Granger.” Snape dropped the _Miss_ a couple of days back. Going to surnames works for Hermione, who still can’t work through how she feels about _Severus Snape_ calling her by her given name or some pet name that makes her feel like a wounded animal. And if he can’t call her Hermione, she’s not going to call him Severus. Not yet.

They’d had to start over, relationship-wise. Even though her history with Snape runs much deeper (and shallower, depending on how she looks at it), she’s been comfortable with Orev. But now Snape . . . Severus? . . . Snape . . . is there in Orev’s place. And she’s having to rework her feelings to accommodate the change.

One of the feelings she needs to work through is how much she enjoyed Orev’s close proximity. But it won’t do to think of Snape that way, will it?

“I just want to learn a few more complicated spells, for insurance,” she says. 

They were just stopping for the day, having spent considerable time following a trail that turned out to be nothing. Of course, Snape had said it was nothing to begin with, but Hermione had insisted on postponing their search of the first cave in favor of checking this section of the woods.

And they’ve been arguing for the last hour. Hermione wants Snape to show her some of the Dark spells he knows. He is flat out refusing.

He takes the tent from Hermione. “Then learn them from your books,” he says. “Nothing will entice me to show you those spells.”

“Afraid of sullying my good name?” she shoots at him, annoyed.

“No, of sullying mine. I’ve never knowingly taught Dark spells to a student, and I’m not going to start now.”

“But I’m not a student anymore.”

Snape throws down the tent in anger, his eyes flashing. “In. Deed. So I should not be obligated to teach you anything!”

“Alright, don’t get worked up.”

“ _Worked up?_ Granger, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

She takes the tent from him, afraid he is going to damage it if he keeps picking it up and throwing it down. It is old and fragile, after all. “Then enlighten me.”

Snape’s nostrils flare. He’s thinking of something snarky, she can see it in his eyes, but he hasn’t let the words fly yet. When he finally speaks, it is with a kind of forced control leaking out of every phrase. “As much as you might enjoy being a student, did you ever think that I don’t want to go back to being a professor?”

“Is that all that’s bothering you? I was thinking you could show me more as a friend and a fellow member of the Order than as a teacher reprising an old role.”

“Her— _Granger_ , the only reason I’ve been able to go on with my life is because I’ve put certain things behind me. And standing in front of an old student, teaching her Dark spells that I learned from _You-Know-Who_ himself isn’t high on my list of things to do to keep my past in its proper place.”

“You wouldn’t have to stand in front of me, just off to the side—”

“Argh! Infuriating witch!”

Hermione smiles inwardly. She can’t help but be pleased that she’s flustered him.

“You enjoy torturing me just a little, don’t you?” he asks, his voice a little more composed.

“I learned from the best.”

“Humph. The Weasley twins, no doubt.”

“No, Snape, I was referring to you.” She lets her mouth twitch into a tiny smile, a conciliatory gesture. She’s tired of arguing, after all. And he obviously isn’t going to change his mind about this. At least not right now.

Snape smirks just a little. “Give me back the tent. I promise not to rip it to shreds.”

She hands him the tent and he sets it down before waving his wand at it. The tent begins setting itself up, unfolding and growing up off the ground like a balloon. Then Snape moves on to the wards.

Hermione watches him a moment. He’s still wearing those ridiculously hot—temperature-wise—robes. She abandoned hers earlier in the day due to the unusually warm weather. His longish hair is still tied in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. His face wears its customary sneer. 

Snape glances at her, catching her eye. “What?” he asks.

“You’re different, you know,” she blurts.

He frowns. “Nothing other than the result of time.”

She shakes her head. “No, I meant different than Orev. And also the Professor Snape I knew. Like you’re now a mixture of the two.”

“Oh? Was there something about Orev you especially liked, or are you trying to say I’m an awful git in all three forms?”

“No, I’m not saying that. But Orev was definitely a bit easier to get along with. Is it all an act or are you just having an identity crisis?”

Snape snorts as he conjures a fire on the logs he’s just collected from inside the tent. But he doesn’t comment.

“For instance,” Hermione continues, “Orev was not above a bit of flirting. But it is very _un_ -Snape-like.”

Snape summons the small kitchen table from the tent and levitates it to a spot in front of the door. Then he summons a chair, sits in it, and crosses his arms. “And how would you know, _Miss_ Granger?”

“I don’t follow.”

“I think you do, but I’ll repeat the question for your unsullied ears: How would you know if the old Snape wasn’t above a bit of flirting?”

Hermione squirms on the spot. His eyes bore into hers, not in a bad way, but he clearly enjoys flustering her a little, too. Then she laughs. “I don’t see it.”

Snape smiles, a cheeky grin that extends all the way to his eyes. “That’s because you were a _student_ , and there were a great many things you didn’t see.”

Hermione flushes again (why does she keep doing that?) and thinks this isn’t exactly how she meant for this conversation to go. Still, now that it has, she is compelled to ask something else. She summons her own chair and pulls it up to the table across from Snape.

“Alright, then, if you don’t wish to view me as a student any longer, as you’ve made clear by your unwillingness to teach me a few spells, then why are you suddenly trying to act like the professor I knew? Why the swap back and forth?”

Snape leans forward, perching his elbows on the table. “Since you insist,” he says dryly, “I will tell you what I really think.” He pauses for effect. “You liked Orev flirting with you. That’s why you brought it up.”

Hermione chuckles—it’s really more of an explosion of mirth, the opposite of a gasp. She quickly reigns it in, but Snape is in his element now, turning the tables, commandeering the conversation as only he can.

“You know I’m right. And you can’t blame me for flirting a little when I met you. The forest isn’t exactly dripping with beautiful, intelligent women. I’ve been here a while, I should know. So when I found you, and I didn’t know who you were, I couldn’t resist a little harmless teasing.”

His eyes darken. “I am a man, after all, _Miss_ Granger. The fact that you would assume Severus Snape incapable of flirting just shows your naïveté, and your immaturity. And proves that I was right.”

“Oh?” Hermione asks, offended at his description of her. “Please continue. I know you can’t wait to tell me what you were right about.”

“I was right to back off when I found out who you were.”

“Because I was a former student?”

“No, I have many former students. It’s because _Hermione Granger couldn’t handle flirting from someone like me_.”

“Someone as arrogant as you, you mean.”

“Call it what you wish, I would have died long ago if I didn’t possess a certain confidence in myself.”

She sighs. “If truth be told, Orev came on a bit strong.”

“And yet you didn’t leave, did you?” Snape sits back in his chair and smirks. “Miss Granger must have liked it. Or . . . she’s never had a real man flirt with her before.”

It is a low blow. 

Hermione sits back, like a wave of cold water has just washed over her. She hovers in between anger and hurt, tears and revenge, for his comment. Because he could only be referring to Ron. And the fact that he would even stoop so low, given his earlier attempt at friendship, leaves her feeling numb and hurt at the same time.

Because up until now, Hermione was enjoying herself, enjoying the easy banter, and yes, even enjoying letting Snape fluster her a little. And then he has to ruin it. 

And he sits there, knowing perhaps he’s gone too far and trying to work out if she’s going to burst into tears, or hex him, or both. She stands, deciding she doesn’t want to be predictable and do either one.

“I’m going to make some tea,” she says. “Do you think you can handle the soup, or will you cock that up as well?”

Snape blinks in confusion.

_Good, let him squirm._

Hermione whisks into the tent, banging around the pots and pans for good measure, even though the tea kettle sits placidly on the stove and she doesn’t need anything else at the moment.

She finally manages to calm down and get some water into the kettle, deciding to wait on it to heat the Muggle way, instead of helping it along with her wand. She faces the gas-burning stove and the blank canvas beyond it. 

A bitter thought runs through her head, one that says Severus Snape will never, could never, be less or more than he is. 

And what is he, exactly?

And if she could change him, would she?

Why does it even matter?

Hermione can’t answer any of her own questions.

The water boils. The kettle whistles. Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t move to take it off the burner.

Snape’s voice catches her off guard. “Despite the old adage, a watched pot does, in fact, boil.”

His words flutter past Hermione’s right ear. He’s standing right behind her, the warmth of his body heating her back. 

“Why are you in here?” she whispers without turning. Really, she doesn’t want to look at him. And the fact that he’s violated her privacy only serves to cement the feeling that Severus Snape will do and say whatever he wants, no matter what others wish.

“Because we’ve set a precedent,” he says, “and Rule Number One only applies when you are not in distress.”

He reaches around her to turn off the stove and remove the kettle from the heat. As he does, his chest briefly touches her back, his arm her arm. It’s a simple gesture, and despite Hermione’s whirl of emotions, she doesn’t hate it.

“Don’t get all sappy on me, Granger, but I apologize for my rudeness. I didn’t truly mean to offend the memory of someone you cared about. Old habits and everything.”

“His name was Ron.”

“I know.”

Hermione turns to face him, then. Snape still hasn’t moved, his body just shy of touching hers, forcing her to stay against the stove. She wonders that she doesn’t push him away. She _should_ push him away.

Maybe he is right. Maybe Hermione Granger can’t handle the likes of Snape flirting with her, if she dissolves into a mess every time he says something cutting. Because in her heart, she thinks he really didn’t mean to say what he said about Ron, or at least didn’t mean to hurt her.

“I’ll bring out the tea,” she says, still whispering.

He whispers back: “And I’ll bring out something stronger. We’ve earned it, I think.” But he doesn’t move or make a gesture to get out of her way. Instead he seems to be warring with himself, with words on his lips that he’s fighting to hold back. Finally, he leans forward, with only the tiniest bit of smirk, to put his mouth close to Hermione’s ear, although he’s still not touching her. “I did, in fact, manage to make the soup without cocking it up.”

Hermione blushes in earnest now, his choice of words in such close proximity leaving no doubt that he hasn’t decided to give up flirting with her, after all.

Her forehead is level with his chin. Her eyes travel up his chest to his neck, where she sees one circular scar just under his jaw, right where his jugular is placed.

Snape moves then, just enough to give her room to squeeze past him. She does, and the moment passes.


	16. Chapter 16

 

Hermione winces as she sits up in her comfy arm chair. Then she quickly tries to hide it. She doesn’t want him to know her wound from the dragon’s claw still smarts, especially at night when she’s tired. Since it’s dark, maybe Snape didn’t see her grimace.

The fire crackles nicely, warding off the cool mountain air which descended after the sun went down. Hermione takes another sip of her—well, Snape’s—Firewhiskey, hoping to hide her face and take the edge off her painful shoulder.

“Is it still bothering you?” Snape drawls, breaking the companionable silence. He’s sitting to her right, his chair facing the fire.

Merlin’s beard, that man doesn’t miss anything. But then, he wouldn’t. Ex-spy and everything.

“It’ll be okay,” she says.

“Really? It should have healed by now.”

“The tissue is healed. I think it just bruised the bone.”

“You should let me look at it.”

“Are you a Healer now, too, Snape?” And that’s why she doesn’t drink much—Firewhiskey always makes her a little annoyed with everything, and waspish.

Snape doesn’t reply. He shrugs, maybe, explaining the movement at the corner of her vision, but she can’t be sure because she refuses to look at him.

Finally, he says, “Sarcasm doesn’t bother me, you know, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Ha. Except when it comes from Harry Potter.”

He sniffs. “Yes, well, Potter always did get under my skin a little.”

Hermione snorts. “A _little_? Sometimes, I thought we were going to witness the first time in history that looks were actually going to kill somebody.” She glances at him.

Snape smirks, then says, “Let’s not talk about Harry Potter, alright? Not tonight.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“We don’t have to talk,” he croons.

Hermione’s heart gives a little flutter and she turns to look at him to see what he means. If not talk, then . . . what?

Snape smirks again—so annoying. “I prefer silence to rehashing old times, wonderful as they were.” He casts a glance her way, catching her eye, the corners of his mouth turned upward in mischief.

Severus bloody Snape—he had meant to confuse her.

But Hermione refuses to be flustered, another side effect of the Firewhiskey. “You are practicing avoidance, you know.”

“I’d rather not talk about that, either, Granger,” Snape grunts.

“See? My point exactly,” she says cheekily, wishing a little to get him riled up again, all the while fearing the biting remarks that will inevitably turn her way. Why does she enjoy verbally sparring with this man? Is it out of habit? Or just a desire to connect with him on a different level?

“It’s a general Gryffindor attitude,” Snape replies, “You can’t help yourselves from digging around and getting people stirred up.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “What? Did you just . . . ?”

Snape’s eyes flash. “Did I just what?”

Had he read her mind (although they hadn’t been making eye contact) or had she spoken her thoughts aloud? Or was his remark due to a different train of thought altogether?

“Granger, you are odd when you drink, no more Firewhiskey for you, I think.” Snape reaches over and tugs her glass out of her hand.

Hermione giggles. (What is she doing? She never _giggles_.) “That rhymed.”

Snape rolls his eyes. “I should have figured you’d be a lightweight,” he mutters.

Hermione sits up straighter, determined to prove him wrong. She’s just a bit emotional, is all, and it has nothing to do with the Firewhiskey.

Probably.

Maybe.

She adjusts herself in her seat, her shoulder facing the fire and her face toward Snape. He’s back to staring into the fire, a glass in each hand. His is empty. He raises Hermione’s glass to his mouth and drains her remaining Firewhiskey in one gulp. The act is casual and companionable, just like his silences.

At least, his silences now that Hermione is an adult. When she was a student, the professor’s silence had terrified her almost as much as his words.

“You’re alive,” she whispers in amazement.

Snape lowers the now-empty glass and looks at it, then his eyes glide over to Hermione. “Last time I checked. Firewhiskey definitely makes you a dull-witted thing, doesn’t it?”

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s not the drink. I was just thinking.”

Realizing she is determined to talk, Snape vanishes both glasses with a sigh. “Go on, then.”

“It’s just all a bit surreal, meeting you here. A few days ago, you were dead. And now, you’re sitting at my fire, an arm’s length away, drinking and teasing and . . .”

Snape snorts. “And?”

“Just being you.”

“To be fair, I should mention that I have never died. I didn’t suddenly rise from the grave to accompany you on your quest for vengeance.”

“It’s more than vengeance.”

“Is it?” Snape looks back at the fire.

“Yes,” she says stiffly.

“Whatever you tell yourself, Granger.” He glances at her. “Oh, don’t look so righteous. Not all vengeance is bad.”

“Is that why you did it?”

Snape’s attention snaps back to her. “Did _it_? Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t in the mood to rehash old times?”

So he knew what she was referring to, then. Had he thrown himself into his work with the Order of the Phoenix only to avenge Lily’s death? Once she had died, he could have vanished, he didn’t have to stay, despite Dumbledore’s manipulations. Snape had worked so tirelessly against Voldemort. Hermione wondered, long after she found out about Snape protecting Harry for Lily’s sake, if Snape’s motives hadn’t been a little more self-serving. Surely Snape would have wanted Voldemort dead, as retribution for robbing the professor of the only person he had ever cared about?

Snape grunts. “Leave it.”

“I didn’t say anything else.”

“But you were thinking it. Leave it be. I don’t want to talk about it, because it no longer defines who I am.”

“I’m just trying to understand.” For the second time that night, Hermione wonders if he’s been spying on her thoughts.

“Well you’ll just have to be disappointed. Your understanding will not give me peace of mind. It’ll only make _you_ feel better.”

He’s right, she realizes. Explaining things to Hermione Granger would only satisfy Hermione’s curiosity, nothing more. It won’t do Snape any good. “Okay,” she says. She can live with that.

“Okay,” he repeats, looking at her warily.

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Snape nods and turns to face her, seemingly ready to move the conversation in a different direction. “I’ve been thinking about your request from earlier.”

“And you’ve changed your mind?” Hermione brightens. “There’s just a few spells that I—”

“No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

She sighs. Snape is determined to disappoint her tonight, it seems.

“At least,” he smiles, “I haven’t changed my mind about the way I feel about it. But you have a point. Dark magic is a tool, one you never know when you might need.”

Hermione smiles back. “So you don’t believe I’ll be corrupted or turned into another Bellatrix Lestrange or some other awful person?”

Snape grimaces at the name of his old comrade. “The thing that concerns me, Granger, is the intent with which the Dark Arts are used. People who use them often do so because they _already_ have a tendency for evil, or at the very least an unhealthy thirst for power. Dark Magic feeds off of this personality type, twisting it, yes. But rarely does it take hold unless the witch or wizard isn’t already looking to be changed in some way.”

He is dancing around his past, purposefully not giving her an opening to question him. And she has so many questions, suddenly, many more than earlier.

“Bottom line, Granger, is the people who end up becoming Dark witches and wizards are there because they’ve chosen to be.”

“And so you’re worried I’m looking to be changed? That I have some hidden thirst for knowledge that only a lesson in the Dark Arts will quench?”

He nods. “Considering your current circumstances, I don’t think I’m far off the mark.”

“You’re not worried about the Dark Arts corrupting me, you’re worried that I’ve already been corrupted.”

“In a way. We choose what road to go down. Yours is a dangerous one.”

If Hermione had been a bit tipsy earlier, she didn’t feel a trace of it now. So many questions. Which ones would he answer?

“Do you still enjoy using the Dark Arts?” she asks, not a little nervously. “I mean, assuming you enjoyed them to begin with.”

Snape’s eyes are on fire. She grits her teeth, waiting for the explosion. But it doesn’t come.

“They are tools to achieve an end,” he says, “but yes, sometimes I still relish using them.”

“Even after . . .?” After Lily died through Dark magic? she wants to ask. Her courage fails her, and she leaves the question hanging in the air, as if he’ll be less angry if he’s only left to guess her intent. 

“Yes,” he says quietly, his face a complete mask.

“And do you use them often?”

“I don’t think about it, usually, because using them is so automatic, like any other form of magic at this point. I don’t hesitate to use them when I need to.”

“Is that why you’re still here?” she asks. “Because you think I’m in danger from myself?”

Snape smirks, a part of his old self returning. “You flatter yourself, Granger.”

He leans back and appraises her with his eyes. For the first time in the conversation, Hermione is truly uncomfortable. She’d rather see him angry with her than regarding her with the predatory look he has now. Maybe all the talk about the Dark Arts has stirred another side of him—one that she’d rather see dormant. Whatever the reason, the air itself is almost electrified with his gaze.

Hermione almost forgets to breathe, but she refuses to back down, returning his open stare with one of her own, a battle of wills. And she can’t help but find his raw display of power sexy—no, _arousing_. At the moment, Snape could sweep her up and do just about anything to her, and she’d let him, even if she is still mad about all his insults.

 _And don’t forget the age difference_ , a weak voice interjects.

Suddenly she wants him closer, like he had been in the tent earlier, beside the stove. But she’s definitely not going to move, thank you. If she moves, she isn’t sure what will happen. Okay, she has a pretty good idea of what will happen.

Which is why she needs to stay put. 

 _To the death, then_ , she thinks, amused with herself.

Snape snorts, breaking eye contact.

“Aha!” she says. “You _have_ been reading my mind.”

He laughs. “You didn’t do anything to prevent it, although I suspect the Firewhiskey has something to do with it.”

Hermione wonders how much of her thoughts he heard just now, but suddenly decides she doesn’t care. Playing with Severus Snape will be like playing with the Dark Arts themselves. How had he put it? _We choose what road to go down. Yours is a dangerous one._

“Indeed,” Snape says.

“ _Snape!_ ” Hermione cries. “NO MORE.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning, Hermione’s shoulder aches worse than ever. She digs around in her bag for a pain potion, but to her dismay, she’s run out. She’ll just have to brew some more, and she’s not too excited about the idea of Snape knowing what she’s doing. But she’s not sure how to get around it. He’s taught her everything she knows, after all.

Well, not _everything_.

_Get a grip, Hermione._

In the light of day, and without liquor to lower her inhibitions, Hermione is trying to summon the motivation to be angry at Snape for invading her mind last night. But then she remembers his eyes, pouring into hers, promising secrets and danger and . . .

_Stop._

Snape is right to worry about her, if she’s now looking for danger in her life. Although she’s never gone looking for danger, it’s just always appeared in front of her.

Well, maybe she’s looked for it once or twice.

Hermione sighs. She’s going to have to tell Snape about her shoulder. Immediately thoughts of his hands on her bare skin send goosebumps up her spine.

Ugh. She better be sure to employ Occlumency today.

Severus Snape—that’s his name. The professor who made her miserable and bullied her mercilessly when she was an impressionable teenager. _Impressionable_ , hmm. She hadn’t been as impressionable as some, perhaps. And she survived it, after all. But the reminder does its purpose, and she strides confidently from the tent, refusing to fear Snape’s words, actions, or looks today.

He’s already sitting at the table, drinking tea, a book in front of him. It’s one she loaned him yesterday before they stopped for the night. He’s almost finished with it. With a pang, she remembers they are supposed to be researching his problem with Apparition. And also supposed to be searching caves for mysterious Dark wizards. 

Snape nods to her as she sits, and sends a steaming cup of tea her way. It’s good. They sit together in silence, while Hermione tries to read his page upside down. She doesn’t interrupt him, though, knowing how much she hates that herself.

When he finishes the last page, he closes the book and places his hand over it. 

“Anything new?” she asks.

He gives a quick shake of the head. “We’ll have to read more tonight. If we leave the camp set up, we can just Apparate to our first cave, then use this place a base.”

“Yes.”

“Something wrong?”

“Umm. Well, we may need to postpone . . .”

“Again? We just wasted two days on a whim. What is it this time, Granger?”

“It’s my shoulder—it’s worse.”

Snape sighs. “Are you going to let me look at it, or are we going to argue about that again, too?”

Hermione hesitates. It shouldn’t matter as much as it does.

“Don’t worry,” he snorts. “I don’t take advantage of women when they’re in pain, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m going to ask you nicely, Snape, not to use Legilimency on me anymore.”

Snape rolls his eyes. “I didn’t that time, Granger. Your body language is telling me everything I need to know.”

“Well, what do you expect, the way you throw around flirty . . . flirtations all the time.”

His lips twitch. “Flirty flirtations? How very eloquent.”

Hermione straightens in her chair. “You know what I mean.”

“And here I thought you liked it, Granger. My apologies.” He’s smirking in earnest now, clearly not at all sorry for his behavior. He leans forward, putting his hands on the table. “I thought maybe I was wrong and you could handle it, but looks like I was right to begin with.”

“Don’t look so smug. It doesn’t bother me as much as I don’t know what the end game is.”

Snape raises an eyebrow with a genuine look of surprise. Then he he lowers his voice: “You don’t know what comes after flirting?”

A good calling out, that’s what he’s needed all along with this. Hermione won’t be played around like a naive teenager, even if she does enjoy his flirting.

 _Sometimes flirting is just flirting, Hermione._ _You’re giving him too much power when you make it more than it is._

_Nonsense, he knows what he’s doing._

“Don’t think I’m capable of a bit of harmless fun, Granger?”

“Alright, that’s it!” she stands, drawing her wand. “Try getting into my head _one_. _more_. _time_.” From across the table, she jabs the wand at him with each syllable.

Snape eyes her wand, his look more wary than she expected. Then he smirks, the mask back in place. “Do you really think I’m afraid of you?”

Hermione casts a silent Bat-Bogey Hex at his face. Bats for the Bat, she thinks with satisfaction.

Snape blocks the spell, but only just. His wand is up his shirtsleeve, after all. A stream of purple sparks hits the tent behind him, and the fabric catches fire.

“Aguamenti!” Hermione yells, sending a stream of water toward the flames. They extinguish quickly, and she breathes a sigh of relief, only to look at Snape and have all the air whoosh out of her lungs.

He’s on his feet, eyes flashing dangerously. Hermione keeps her wand on him, but she backs up all the same as he knocks the table out of his way and advances toward her. The table crashes to the ground with a tinkling of breaking tea cups.

Hermione backs into a tree. Snape doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of her, allowing the wand to dig into his chest.

Tree bark digs into her sore shoulder. She winces.

Snape props his hand on the tree above her, his body leaning over hers, the wand the only thing between them.

“Do something for me.” His voice is deep and silky, black as the cloak he’s wearing.

Hermione blinks in surprise. He’s holding her gaze, and he’s got her full attention. She nods.

“Decide if you want to be a woman, and all the things that go with it, or if you want to keep the school girl persona you are so desperately clinging to.” Snape’s eyes flick to the wand still pressed into his chest.

Hermione’s heart, already racing, decides to skip around inside her chest. “You . . . don’t want me to stand up for myself?”

“On the contrary.” His eyes roam back up to her face, slowly, barely concealing the excitement within them. “Trying to hex me is the most womanly thing you’ve done since I met you.”

Those eyes, though. Hermione can’t stop looking into them. She keeps her wand trained on Snape, as a physical barrier between her body and his, not because she’s going to do anything with it. She wouldn’t be able to think of a spell right now if her life depended on it. Her feelings balloon in her chest. Or maybe that’s the air she’s holding in, because she still can’t breathe.

“And for your information,” Snape says. “I am not using Legilimency at every turn. Your eyes and facial expressions betray you, quite frequently in fact.”

Hermione blushes.

Snape smiles, then whispers, “Just. Like. That.” With the hand that isn’t supporting himself against the tree, Snape pushes her wand out of the way, allowing him to lean closer. Hermione tries not to audibly gulp. 

“Well?” he asks, hovering just in front of her. “What’s it going to be, Hermione?”

The balloon inside her chest doubles in size. The way he’s looking at her, like a lion about to take down an antelope . . .

Or more accurately, like a viper ready to catch a bird . . .

And just like that, the balloon pops. Still maintaining eye contact, Hermione finds her breath. 

He’s trying to fluster her; it’s what Severus Snape is good at. Yes, Hermione is out of her depth here, but not so much that she can’t see the pool she’s drowning in. Death Eater turned spy, turned hero, turned recluse, Severus Snape has always enjoyed power. And he’s enjoying intimidating her again after all these years. Now that he isn’t her professor, she guesses he isn’t above using all sorts of methods to make her uncomfortable in his presence. 

Hermione considers calling his bluff (because that’s surely what it is). He’s so close she only needs to lean forward—just so—to kiss him. Then what would he do?

When her eyes dart to his mouth, Snape smirks.

“Are you quite finished, Severus?” she asks, in the most confident voice she can muster.

His smirk broadens into a grin.

Hermione places a hand on his chest and pushes him back. At first, he resists, and she wonders if he’s now going to call _her_ bluff and refuse to move. But then he complies and takes a step back, his arms falling down to his side.

“Now,” she says when there’s some distance between them, “are you going to help me with my shoulder, or not?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, I'm caught up with posting what I have on this archive. I'll update a couple times a week, at the least. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> I am so sorry, all, but I accidentally skipped chapter 4 when I was trying to post all of them at the same time. It went to a draft instead of actually posting. Sorry I made you miss a scene! (Albeit a short one.) I fixed it, though, so you can go back and pick it up.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! You make a girl's head spin. :)

“You know,” Snape says over his cauldron, “I really don’t love brewing.”

Hermione snorts into the tea she’s just made, sending dribbles down her chin.

“I gather you’re surprised.”

“You’ve done a good job of hiding it.”

Snape shrugs. “I’ve done a good job of hiding a great many things.”

“What about the theatrical speech you used to give to your First Years?” She says, dabbing her chin with her sleeve. “ _Ensnare the senses_ , and all that?”

“Because a wizard who can’t brew is subjecting himself to a lifetime of relying on others for his potions. And others make mistakes . . . Or try to kill you.”

“So you think everyone except you is incompetent.”

Snape glances at her. “Just about.”

“I guess you always did want to teach something else?”

“It’s hardly a secret I wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Hermione nods. “Not many secrets at Hogwarts.”

“Not to you and your little gang, anyway. But there was plenty you didn’t know about.”

“Like what?” she asks, curious.

Snape ignores her question and dips a bit of the potion he’s been brewing into a crystal vial. He brings it to Hermione’s chair. “Drink this.”

Hermione takes a whiff. “Whew! What’d you put in it—dragon dung?”

“It’ll ease your pain.”

She has a sudden urge to pinch her nose while she drinks it, but doesn’t want to look like a coward, so she tips it up and drains it in one go.

It tastes like raw sewage.

She almost spews it all over his robes but manages to swallow it without gagging. “Oh . . . Merlin, that’s disgusting!”

Snape smiles. “Dragon dung usually is. Ten points to Gryffindor for figuring out the main ingredient.”

Hermione’s mouth hangs open. She seizes her tea and slurps it down in one gulp. It only makes the taste worse. “You. Could have . . . added something to make it . . . more palatable.”

“I could have.” Snape smirks again. “Now, are you going to let me look at your shoulder?”

Hermione grimaces again with the aftertaste of the potion. “Was the dragon dung even necessary? Or did you add it just to torture me?”

“I thought it was very necessary. Stand up.”

With a sigh, Hermione stands. She’s wearing her customary large long-sleeve t-shirt over leggings. Because it’s cool (and because she suspected Snape would insist on seeing her injury) she’s wearing a tank top beneath the t-shirt. She turns and peels off the top layer, putting her back to him.

Snape mutters something over her back, his wand following the line of the fresh pink scar there. He moves the strap of her tank, pushing it down her arm. Then he mutters another incantation.

He presses two fingers into her spine.

Hermione hisses. “Ow.”

“You’re right, I think. It’s just bruised. More of the salve will help.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. Great, more skin on skin contact with Severus Snape. But her back is too sore for her to argue. “Okay,” she breathes.

Without another word, Snape retrieves the salve from his pocket and she hears a soft pop as he pulls the stopper from the vial.

The first touch of the salve warms her skin, bringing soothing relief. She tries to ignore the rest of the sensations while he smoothes it once more over her scar, focusing on where it crosses her vertebrae. When he’s finished, he stoppers the vial, pulls her strap back up her shoulder, and picks up her shirt to hand to her.

Hermione pulls it on and turns. “Thank you, Snape.”

“Severus,” he says. 

Hermione smiles.

A little of the tension that’s been hanging in the air since that morning ebbs away. 

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, since we’ve lost another day, I suggest we take advantage of the light left and get through as many books as we can.”

They spend the rest of the evening in near silence, both pouring over books, looking for a bread crumb that will lead them to a solution to Snape’s predicament.

“Do you think it has something to do with Nagini’s venom, or the fact that you were so far gone before Fawkes found you?” Hermione asks hours later. They are sitting at the table, which is still outside in front of the tent. A lantern sits between them; the remainder of their evening meal is still stacked off to the side.

Snape looks up from his book. “Did Arthur Weasley ever have any problems after he was bitten?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve always thought it had to be a combination, which is why it’s been so hard to find another case that mimics my exact circumstances.”

Hermione sighs and pulls another book from her bag— _Methods and Potions for Dark Magic._

“I’ve read that one,” he says.

She pulls out three more, all of which he’s read. 

After searching through more books, Hermione finds two more he hasn’t read. He takes one, and she takes one, and they lapse back into silence.

Her eyelids refuse to stay open. When Snape finally closes his book, she shakes herself and rises. The act, and the cool night air, wakes her a little. But by the time she stumbles into her tent, she’s too tired to do anything but lie down on her bunk.

Her shoulder feels better, and she almost feels guilty for not telling Snape . . . Severus . . . thank you. But after she promises herself to thank him in the morning, she quickly goes to sleep.

Hermione dreams about Ron again. This time, he’s walking her home from somewhere, holding her hand. He says something she can’t quite make out, so she turns to look at him while he speaks. 

His face is gone.

Instead of seeing Ron’s freckles, she sees a blur. Like he’s there but her mind can’t remember what he looks like. He’s speaking again, but his voice is muted. She can’t remember what he sounds like, either. Hermione crumples to the ground, her body convulsing in sobs.

“Hermione!”

Hermione’s eyes snap open, then squint again as a light hits them.

“Dumbledore’s _beard_ , how much racket can one person make?” Severus asks. He’s standing over her, his wand alight.

Hermione covers her eyes and slumps back down into her pillow. She squashes it to her face, wanting to scream, to force the dream out of her mind. Wait, can she still remember Ron?

She waits for the memory of his face to come back to her. For a moment, she’s afraid she really has forgotten what he looks like. Then, mercifully, he returns in a wave of feeling, as if the memory travelled from across an ocean to get to her.

Hermione relaxes, then, and remembers Severus is there, too. She turns over to look at him. 

“I guess you’re okay,” he says.

“Umm. Yes,” she whispers. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice gravelly.

“Can . . . can you move the light out of my face?”

Severus looks at his wand, then moves it, as if he just realized he was shining it in her eyes.

She must be a mess. She smooths her hair as she sits up. Then she gathers the pillow into her arms for comfort, hugging it to her. “I feel so . . . weak,” she tells him.

“Are you ill?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, it’s not that kind of weakness.” 

He’s silent a long moment, then, “I understand.”

“You do?”

“You hate yourself for grieving, and for not being able to let go. And then you hate yourself for wanting to.”

Hermione tries not to let her mouth hang open in shock. It’s the most personal thing he’s ever told her. She gives him a chance to go on, but when he doesn’t, she says, “It’s just that . . . Well, it’s been over a year, hasn’t it? And I’m still dreaming about him like I just saw him yesterday. Only tonight . . .” She trails off as her heart seizes and twists inside her. 

Severus sits on the end of her bed, bringing one knee up to rest beside her leg. 

“Tonight,” she continues, “I couldn’t remember what he looked like. I don’t want that to happen.”

“It won’t.” His tone matches Hermione’s—almost a whisper. “You knew him for too long, and he was too important. Don’t fret about that, Wren.”

She nods, thinking that if Severus would always try this hard to be compassionate, he’d be very attractive, indeed.

He snorts. Then he holds up his hand as if to stop her from saying anything. “Sorry, really. You make it too easy.”

She flushes again and buries her face in her pillow. “I seem to be having trouble with my Occlumency, lately.”

What is wrong with her? She was just dreaming about Ron, and now she’s blushing at the man who used to be her dreaded Potions professor. Not to mention she can’t seem to block a single thought from him. She might as well speak all her thoughts aloud and forget about it.

Hermione sighs. “Just go,” she mumbles through the pillow.

“No. Do you mind?”

“What?” Hermione jerks her head up, temper flashing, ready to say _of course she minds_.

But Severus isn’t smirking at her or sizing her up. He’s just sitting there, watching her. “It’s raining,” he says, shrugging.

“Oh.”

When she pays attention, she hears large drops falling onto the tent canvas. In a few seconds, the splatter turns into a downpour. The wind picks up too, as the first peals of thunder roll over the forest.

They listen awhile, each consumed with their own thoughts. As if to mimic Hermione’s mood, hail pelts the tent. Severus waves his wand and casts a Shield Charm over the fabric.

“Looks like we’re about to chuck Rule Number One out altogether,” he says with a smile.

“I suppose so.”

“You really hate me so much,” he says. “That you would rather I was out in the storm than be anywhere near you?”

The question hits Hermione like a Weasleys’ Wildfire Whizz-bang. “Of—of course not! Why would I hate you?”

“I make you uncomfortable.”

“Well, I think even you can admit this has been an uncomfortable situation. But that’s hardly a reason to hate somebody. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“To what?”

“For all your intelligence, you’re pretty dense, aren’t you. Why would I be thinking . . . certain things . . . if I _hated_ you?”

“I generally hate people who make me uncomfortable,” he says with a smile. “It’s just easier that way.”

“So does that mean you hate me? Because despite your little display against the tree this morning, Severus, I think I make you just as uncomfortable as you make me.”

The rain pours down harder. A drip-drip sounds from the corner of the tent.

Severus leans forward. “Well, if we’re being honest: of course I’m uncomfortable. How am I supposed to feel when I find myself . . .” He makes a little choked sound in the back of his throat.

“What?” Hermione prods.

He takes a deep breath, then says in a rush, “. . . when I find myself attracted to the brightest witch I’ve ever taught, an attraction which is dubious at best, and dangerously inappropriate at worst.”

All of Hermione’s breath leaves her. She stares at him, unbelieving. “I thought that was all an act.”

“An act for what?”

“To intimidate me, exert power over me, tease me—take your pick.”

Severus’s eyes flash in amusement. “Those were the benefits, Hermione, not the reasons. And I figured if were going to be uncomfortable, you should, too.”

Hermione is so engrossed in the conversation that she jumps when a particularly loud crack of thunder shakes the air around them. A shiver moves up her spine.

“Well.” It’s the only thing she’s capable of saying at the moment. She shakes her head.

“It’s not that hard to believe, you know,” Severus says. “But since I don’t want to be kicked out into the rain, I won’t tell you exactly how beautiful you are, even with your straight hair. I miss the curly, by the way.”

Her eyes widen. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Severus smirks. “I figure I’ve already admitted this much, why hold back?”

But he looks at her in a way that suggests he is holding back, oh so much more than he’s telling.

Hermione clears her throat. “Please stay in here tonight. I don’t hate you, and I don’t want you out in the rain.”

Without warning, Severus climbs over Hermione’s legs until he’s sitting right beside her, wedged between the tent fabric and her body. He’s not touching her, but he brings a hand around to rest on the mattress on her other side, his other hand behind her.

She’s trapped.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her voice betraying her excitement.

“Don’t be nervous,” Severus whispers into her ear. His breath tickles her. “But can we both stop pretending for just a moment?”

“Pretending?” Her breath is shallow, her heart fluttering around now like she really is a tiny little wren, caught in a net.

Severus leans down, his mouth dangerously close to her neck. “Pretending that I haven’t seen your thoughts. Just a minute, that’s all I ask, then we can go back to before.”

“Before?”

“Whatever or wherever you wish. Severus and Hermione, Snape and Granger, Orev and Wren, Professor and Miss Granger.”

Hermione recognizes the offer he’s making, and the chance he’s taking. She’s taken one, too, in not hexing him as soon as he moved closer.

“A minute,” she whispers.

He swoops down, but the first press of his lips to her skin are gentle, not hungry. She tilts her head to the side, allowing him better access to her neck. He finds the tender spot under her ear, kissing it, then gently grazing it with his tongue. 

Hermione gasps softly as the contact electrifies the left half of her body. _He hasn’t even put his hands on me yet._

Severus pulls away, his forehead resting against the side of her head. She wants him to do more, and she leans against him a little in encouragement.

“How much time to I have left?” he breathes.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me a number.”

“Forty seconds.”

He trails kisses along her cheek, stopping at the corner of her mouth and placing one there. Hermione looks up at him, into dark eyes that seem to hold dark promises and secrets and promises of secrets. 

Severus looks at her mouth, then he ducks his head to kiss her collarbone. His mouth is more urgent now, his lips sucking at the bottom of her throat, just above her shirt collar. 

_He’s marking me_. Hermione groans softly, bringing her hands up into his hair. But before she can wrap her fingers around his neck, Severus tugs her hands away and leans back. 

He’s breathing heavily.

“Time’s up,” he says.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Short chapter (more of a scene really). Hope you enjoy!

****Severus pulls away slowly, his hands lingering on hers. Hermione wants to grab them so he won’t go, but he seems to sense her intention and slides off the bed.

The storm outside rages on without sign of stopping. So Hermione can’t be sure when she thinks Severus sighs harshly as he stands, like he’s summoning some feeling from deep within his soul.

“Hermione.” Master of himself once again, his voice is flat and calm.

She pulls the blanket around her, waiting for him to say he’s sorry, it was a mistake, to forget. But she will never—

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

What should she say? _You’re welcome_ hardly seems appropriate.

Severus doesn’t seem to want an answer. He reaches down to pick up his wand, which fell on the floor, and walks to the bunk opposite hers. “Can I still stay?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

The wand light goes out, and she hears Severus lie down on the thin mattress. She lies down and stares across the tent at him, even though it’s dark and she can’t see.

Lightning flashes, temporarily illuminating the room.

Severus is looking back at her.

Then the room goes dark, and he’s gone again.

They stay like that, listening to the storm, the occasional flash of light revealing each to the other. Hermione hates to close her eyes, as if doing so will wash his touch away from her body, which still basks in the afterglow of arousal. But eventually, the storm wears out, and her glimpses of him get farther and farther apart.

“Go to sleep, Wren,” he whispers.

“I don’t want to.”

“I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

And with that assurance, Hermione closes her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope to update with a longer chapter this weekend. :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dear reader, I know you weren’t happy with me for making the last chapter so short. But it just didn’t go with this one, and I really wanted you to have it. I should have made the scene part of Chapter 18, but alas, it wasn’t in the stars (or in my computer). To make up for frustrating you, here’s a longer chapter. Sincerely, mjwho. ;)

The twitter of birds outside wakes Hermione before it’s really light. Severus is sleeping across the room, his back to her. Last night comes back to her in a rush, and her whole body flushes. She’d worried that she’d regret their actions in the morning, but her doubt was needless. In fact, she can’t help but wonder if he’s going to do it again.

Sixty seconds.

A whole minute.

What was that about? Was he worried about getting carried away? Did he really think their relationship that inappropriate?

Hermione sighs, then drags herself out of bed, padding over to the stove to make some tea. She sets the kettle on (rather hard) and then steps outside.

The camp is a mess.

The storm tossed everything about; limbs are down, the table (which they forgot outside) is overturned and sitting against a tree trunk. Everything is wet. And it’s _cold_. Hermione shivers and _accios_ her cloak from inside the tent. 

A grunt and muffled curse from within. Hermione goes in to see Severus fighting with her cloak. It’s wrapped around his back, dragging him toward the tent door. She must have summoned it just as he was getting up. Hermione stifles her laughter and goes over to help.

The cloak puts up a good fight, thwarting Severus’s attempts to step out from around it. It’s just gathering up around his neck, as if to escape him by going over his head, when Hermione grabs it. At her touch, it sags down onto the floor.

Severus glares at her. “Of all the . . . Couldn’t have looked in before you summoned it, Granger?”

“Sorry,” she say and grins. Not too sorry.

He raises an eyebrow.

“We’re a little bit even now,” she explains, “after that dragon dung potion you made me drink yesterday.”

He smirks. “How are you feeling?”

“Ummmm . . . Good. A little bit in shock that it actually happened. And a little weird about it, but in a good way—”

Severus gives her a strange look that interrupts her rambling. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. “I meant your shoulder.”

“Oh.”

Hermione shivers, remembering why she wanted the cloak in the first place. She avoids Severus’s gaze and makes a show of straightening and flipping it around. But he takes the cloak from her hands, and with it her excuse for meeting his eyes. He shakes it out and wraps it around her, his hands brushing her shoulders as he draws it around under her chin.

His hands linger just a moment longer the necessary, and an unasked question hangs between them.

_Do we pretend like nothing happened?_

They exchange looks, but neither is willing to bring it up, it seems.

Severus lets go. “So your shoulder is better.”

“Yes, so much better I forgot I was even injured.”

“Obviously,” he smirks.

“Thank you again.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

The kettle’s whistling saves the moment from becoming awkward, and Hermione goes to shut it off. A couple of minutes of cleaning up camp, and then they are eating a cold breakfast at the table, stealing glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking.

To distract herself from thinking of the man across from her, Hermione pulls out one of the maps of the dragon preserve.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yes.”

They stand and walk outside of the wards protecting their camp. 

“If something happens,” Severus says, looking at her, “and we run into who we’re looking for, don’t hesitate, because they won’t.”

“Hesitate to do what?”

He sighs. “The fact that you have to ask tells me you’re not ready for this.”

“Ready? I’ve spent over a year getting ready for this!”

“Then tell me what you’re going to do.”

“What I’m going to do?”

“Stop repeating what I say and tell me what you plan on doing when you find a Dark wizard.”

Hermione stiffens. “I want to make sure I have the right one.”

“The one who killed Weasley.”

She frowns, stung a little at his casual mention of Ron. “Yes.”

“Assuming you’ll be able to determine that, then what?”

“Then . . .”

Severus cocks an eyebrow.

“Then . . .” _I’m going to kill him._ Hermione shudders. She’s never voiced the thoughts aloud, but they’ve always been with her, ever since she left the Burrow.

Severus is glaring at her. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper: “If you can’t say it, then we might as well go back to camp and pack up. If you can’t say it, you can’t do it.”

It’s a challenge. Hermione stares back at him, disbelieving.

He grabs her arm, holding it firmly. And his eyes flash, blacker than she’s ever seen them. “Say it.”

“I’m going to kill him.” The words come out easier than Hermione expected. In a way, she’s relieved. But she’s also feeling a bit nauseated, like her breakfast is about to make a reappearance.

Still maintaining eye contact, Severus gives a curt nod and says, “Well done.”

“You _want_ me to . . . Murder?”

“I want you alive. And myself, for that matter. And I’m not going into an unknown situation where you’re not willing to do what’s necessary for us to get out in one piece.” He grips her arm a bit tighter. “Do you understand?”

He’s changed from who he was last night. Severus the man is gone, replaced by Snape the spy.

“Is this what you were like during the War?” she asks in a rush.

He narrows his eyes. “Can’t handle it, Granger?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He releases her.

She straightens her robes and cloak. “Are you still going to help me or have you changed your mind?”

In answer, Severus taps her head with his wand, and the familiar cold trickle of the Disillusionment Charm covers them both. Just before he disappears, Hermione grabs his elbow and turns on her heel.

..

.

..

They land without a sound at the mouth of a shallow cave. It’s very obviously empty. Below, the dragon preserve stretches out in a green forested carpet. While they watch, a small(ish) dragon breaks through the tree canopy and whirls into the air.

“Hey,” Hermione says.

“Yes?”

“The dragons use these caves, don’t they?”

“If we run into one, at least we’ll know our wizard isn’t there. Just Apparate out again right away.”

“Great,” she mutters. After their conversation a few minutes ago, her nerves are already on edge. She would rather not worry about dragons, too.

Keeping hold of Severus’s arm, Hermione Apparates to the next cave without another word. This one is deeper, and they have to walk into the darkness at the back, hoping the sunshine from behind won’t abandon them altogether.

Nothing. It’s empty, too. She grips his arm tighter, ready to turn.

“Wait,” he says. He removes the Disillusionment Charm on himself (but not Hermione) and walks to the side of the cave, near the stone wall. He kicks around, disturbing the dirt. “Old fire pit.”

“How old?”

“Very.”

Severus shakes his head and holds out his hand for her to take. She then waits for him to make himself invisible again before Apparating them to the next cave. And the next after that. And the next. The larger caves require they cast Lumos to aid their search. But every one turns up empty.

The experience is surreal. Apparating here and there, invisible, knowing Severus is at her side even though she can’t see him. She’s not alone, and yet she is. Like the only part of him there with her is his hand holding onto hers.  

By mid-afternoon, Hermione’s nerves, already fraying, are beginning to unravel. The constant anticipation of finding something, coupled with the disappointment of finding nothing, has taken its toll. More storm clouds gather to the west, blocking out the sunshine and plunging the caves into semidarkness. 

“We could use our wands to see the next one,” she says, standing at the entrance to the sixth cave. They’ve just spent an hour exploring it.

“Yes,” Severus answers, “But every time we do, we risk another wizard seeing us.”

“Ready to go back, then?”

He gives her hand a squeeze. She takes that for assent and Apparates them one more time. They land just outside the camp. With a sigh of relief, they pass through the wards and sink into the chairs as the first rumble of thunder rolls over the valley.

Hermione is too tired to think or feel anything beyond wanting a hot shower. Or better yet, a bath. And indoor plumbing.

Since she doesn’t have any of those luxuries, she drags herself out of her chair and goes into the tent, casting a _Scourgify_ over her body before lying down on her bunk. It works to make her clean but does nothing to improve her mood.

She wakes again later in the evening when the first raindrops patter the ten. Severus is already asleep in the opposite bunk. _Just having him near is reassuring_ , she thinks. Hermione closes her eyes again, ready to sleep.

“No,” he says.

Her eyes fly open to look at Severus. He’s frowning with his eyes closed.

“Don’t!” His voice is commanding, even in sleep. A moment later he grimaces and then groans.

His voice changes from confident to fearful: “Please.”

“Severus,” she says, hoping to wake him.

“ _Please don’t!_ ” His plea is terrible, gut wrenching.

Hermione gets out of bed, thinking only of waking him, to free him from the pain of his dream.

“I can’t do it! Why . . . ask . . .”

“Severus!” Hermione walks to his bedside. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

She reaches down to touch his shoulder.

He screams, long and wailing. Hermione jumps back, shocked, but then she gathers her wits and shakes him. Her free hand touches his cheek; it’s wet with tears. “No, no, it’s only a dream. Wake up! I’m here. _Wake up_!”

Severus wakes in a fury, his wand in his hand and his feet on the floor before Hermione can blink. She yelps and ducks. “Severus! Don’t! It’s me!”

He glares down at her, a spell on his lips. 

“NO!” she yells.

He brings himself up short, recognition in his eyes. “Hermione?”

She stands up carefully, her eyes on his wand. He looks at it, too, then lowers it.

“Why did you wake me?”

“You . . . You were dreaming.”

Severus slumps back down to sit on the bed, swiping at the tears on his face. 

“Don’t you remember?”

He drops his hand. “I remember,” he mumbles. “Sorry I woke you.”

She scoffs. “I’m not worried about that.”

The last of the light fades from the room as the storm moves overhead. The tent fabric quivers, signaling the disturbance in the air.

Hermione eases down to sit on the bed next to him, her leg brushing his, but that’s the only contact she dares. She puts her hands in her lap, waiting on him to say something.

“Go back to bed,” he whispers. Even a whisper sounds like a command when it comes from Severus Snape.

She’s a little offended, but she doesn’t move. “Not yet. Want to talk about it?”

“If I wanted to talk about it, would I have told you to go to bed?”

“No need to get snarky. And yes, you would have.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Hermione wishes she was as accomplished at Legilimency as he. Then she wouldn’t have to ask.

“You don’t want to see my nightmares, Granger.”

She blushes, glad he can’t see in the dark. “You know, one day I’m going to really get angry that you take such liberties with my thoughts.”

“It’s a habit—one I’m not inclined to break. It’s saved my life more times than I care to admit.”

Severus lights a lantern with his wand. Its glow cheers the room, chasing away nightmares and demons. For now, anyway. He straightens and looks over at her, surprise passing over his face, as if he’s just realized she’s sitting next to him.

Hermione holds his gaze, silently willing him to remove the awkwardness that’s creeping into the tent. She’s just about to give up and leave when he reaches over and puts an arm around her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

Unable to hold his intense gaze anymore, Hermione rests her head on his shoulder. He pulls her tighter against his chest. “Did I scare you?” 

“I thought you were going to hex me back to Britain.”

“I could have hurt you,” he breathes. “If it happens again, don’t try to wake me.”

“And listen to you scream all night?”

Severus stiffens. “I screamed?”

Hermione summons her courage and puts her hand on his knee. “I couldn’t just ignore you. And I wouldn’t have even if I could.”

“I don’t want to be responsible for . . . I just can’t, Hermione. Not again.”

She looks up at him. He’s watching her. She can see him getting ready to shut her out, push her away. “Don’t look at me like that. Nothing happened.”

“But it could have.”

“If I promise to be more careful next time, will you let it go?”

He sighs.

She smiles. 

Severus brings a hand up to touch her cheek. “You better go.”

She leans into his touch. “If you want me to.”

He makes a little sound in his throat, like he’s trying not to say something. Then he drops his hand. “Yes,” he whispers.

Hermione nods and stands. She can feel his eyes on her as she walks to her bunk, but she doesn’t turn around to look at him again before he extinguishes the lamp. She lies down, thinking she won’t get much sleep, but her weariness overtakes her and she soon drifts off.

..

.

..

Severus wakes screaming again. This time the shrieks are accompanied by deep gasps, like he’s having trouble breathing.

Hermione jerks up out of bed, her wand at the ready, thinking they’re being attacked. But her _lumos_ only reveals Severus twisting in bed, the blankets tangling themselves around him as he cries and begs for something.

Her lesson from earlier fresh on her mind, Hermione doesn’t attempt to wake him. Instead, she crawls onto his bed, on top of the blankets, and wraps an arm around his wiry frame. He continues to jerk and cry out, but she only holds him tighter. 

Eventually, Severus stills and his breathing becomes more even. After a moment, she can tell he’s awake, but he doesn’t speak or try to make her leave.

He shifts around onto his back, and she lays her head on his shoulder, her arm wrapped over his chest. She’s pinning him beneath the blankets—he must be uncomfortable. But he doesn’t attempt to free his arms or disturb her. And Hermione doesn’t move, either, because she doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

They fall asleep like that, Hermione draped over Severus’s chest, his body tucked under the covers. Neither stirs again until morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I struggled with this chapter; maybe it wasn’t ready to post but I won’t have time to do anything with it for a few days. So I decided to put it up. Perhaps a revising is up for the future when I get this fic finished. This is my first serial, by the way, and while I’m enjoying every minute of it, the post schedule I’ve been keeping doesn’t lend itself much time for editing and revising new chapters. :) 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry I took so long to post this week. I don’t think it’ll be this long again between posts.

Waking up in this position is more difficult than falling asleep in it. Hermione is cold. She wakes slowly, confused as to why she’s on top of the covers. Then she remembers.

Her head and arm are still on Severus’s chest, which is clothed only in a thin t-shirt. He moved his own arm sometime in the night. It’s out from under the covers, his hand covering hers. She thinks that if she could just slip out of his bed before he wakes, maybe he’d think it was all another dream.

When she tries to move her arm, though, Severus grabs her hand.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Haven’t been for a while . . . I was waiting on you to wake up.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?” His deep voice feels even more rumbly with her head on his chest. 

Now that Hermione is awake, she realizes just how cold she really is. She tucks herself in closer to his body. They’ve already slept together—might as well make it more comfortable.

Severus takes his hand off hers for a moment to perform a wandless warming spell over her. The warmth spreads from Hermione’s chest out to her fingers and toes, almost like sinking into a warm bath. She sighs in appreciation.

“Was it bad?” he asks.

“Yes,” she breathes. “You . . . I thought someone was attacking you.”

Severus traces a circle on the top of her hand with his thumb. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You can’t help it.”

“I can tonight—Dreamless Sleep Potion ought to do it.”

Hermione almost wishes he wouldn’t take any. Then she feels guilty. Wishing Severus would have more nightmares so she has an excuse to get closer? _Not okay, Hermione_. So she says, “A Dreamless Sleep Potion won’t help the cause. Isn’t there a way you can work all that out of your system? Like talking about it or—”

He laughs quietly. “Talk about it with whom—you? No offense, but I wouldn’t burden _anyone_ with those memories. And anyway, the nightmares are actually better than they used to be.”

Hermione suppresses a shudder. They used to be worse? When she doesn’t say anything else, Severus shifts so he can wrap his other arm around her. He gives her a squeeze before saying, “Don’t worry about it. It’s not anything I can’t live with.”

They lay together a while, neither speaking. If they move, they might be embarrassed, or the tension from the previous day would return. But Hermione feels safe for the moment, even in her vulnerability.

“Severus?”

“Hmm?”

“So, about the other night . . .” She pauses, unsure if what she is about to say will be welcome.

Severus holds his breath, his heartbeat quickening beneath her ear. 

“Yes?” he prompts.

Oh why does she feel like a thirteen-year-old girl again?

His arm around her slackens. “Are you sorry about it?” he whispers.

“Wha—no! If I were, I wouldn’t be lying in your bed.”

He relaxes beneath her, but his heart rate doesn’t slow.

Hermione raises her head to look at him. Severus is looking at her, his eyes wary, but not hard. She takes that as a good sign and plunges in. “Did you mean it when you said you were attracted to me?”

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. Then Severus shifts so she has to move. He turns on his side and props himself on his elbow. From his new vantage point, he’s hovering over Hermione. Her own heart rate speeds up.

“Why do you ask?” Severus asks, his free hand playing with hers.

_He would be coy_ , she thinks. _And not just give me a straight answer._

“I’m vain,” she says, annoyed. “I wanted you to tell me again so I can lord it over you that you fancy a younger woman.”

Severus smirks. “Oh good show, Granger.” He leans down over her, his lips close enough to hers to excite, far enough away to tease. “You were saying?”

“Why did you keep it to one minute?”

His smirk widens. “Not long enough for you?”

“Feeling more confident this morning?”

Severus leans in, eyes searching hers. Then he wraps his hand around her waist to pull her closer. “You _are_ in my bed.”

“I have morning breath,” she whispers.

“I don’t care.” He moves his hand to hold her chin. “And yes, I fancy a younger woman. Problem with that?”

“No.”

Severus leans down to kiss her, his lips pressing against hers, softly but with feeling. After a moment, he pulls back, leaving Hermione with a slightly breathless feeling in her chest.

“A man nineteen years your elder?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “That doesn’t bother me.”

He frowns. “But something does.”

“I was just thinking about . . .” Hermione takes a deep breath, “. . . about . . .”

Severus sighs, then leans down and kisses her cheek. “Spit it out, Granger,” he whispers into her ear.

Hermione runs a hand up his neck and winds her fingers in his hair. “If this is because you want me, or if you’ve just been alone a little too long.”

Severus snorts and raises his head to look at her.

“What do you expect me to think?” she asks.

“I think you don’t have enough confidence in yourself . . . or me.”

He is appraising her now, his dark glance passing over her face and at her hair spread out around her on the pillow. “It’s true I’ve been alone a while,” he says finally, “but I believe you have too. So tell me, Hermione, are you in my bed because you feel sorry for me or because you’re lonely?”

“Neither,” she says firmly. _It’s because I care about you, stupid._

Not caring whether he’s seen her thoughts or not, Hermione pulls Severus down for another kiss. He presses himself to her, his body pushing hers into the mattress with the blankets between them. With his thumb, he pulls down her lower lip, giving his tongue access to her mouth.

Hermione groans and melts into him, her hands tangling themselves in his silky hair. After another moment, Severus pulls away, breathing hard. 

Then he sits up, pulling the blanket around his waist. “I don’t know about you,” he says without looking at her, “but I could do with some coffee. Do you mind? I’ll be back.”

And without waiting for her answer, Severus slides off the bed and stalks out of the tent, swatting at the flap as he leaves.

Hermione sits, stunned, and not a little embarrassed. She’s practically throwing herself at this man, and he can cast her off without another thought.

_Well,_ _be fair, Hermione. He did seem to need that blanket around his waist._ But she can’t deny that Severus Snape has issues. He blows hot one minute, then cold the next. Is he so full of inner turmoil that it’s interfering with his judgement? Or is he just trying to string her along?

The second option seems more like the Snape she knew of old, not the Severus she has been getting to know the last few days. Hermione sighs and gets up to make coffee like he asked, figuring he’d be back after he . . . took care of things . . . and want to plan the day. Hermione grins, her thoughts drifting to Severus somewhere in the woods, using his own hand to—

“Coffee’s ready?” Severus asks, coming in. Hermione blushes and turns, willing him not to try to see her thoughts. He is wearing his robes again.

“Almost,” she says. She retrieves her wand from the kitchen table and taps the percolator to hurry along the coffee.

Severus grins. 

..

.

..

Hermione has many reasons to employ Occlumency over the next few days. They search the forest during the day, looking for any signs of the Dark Arts. In the evenings, after the sun goes down, before they go to bed in their separate bunks, they read Hermione’s books. She often looked over at Severus while he was reading, indulging fantasies about his kisses and his hands on her body. She practiced hiding these thoughts, unwilling that he should see them when she didn’t know if he thought the same things about her.

One night, Severus interrupts her musings, not looking up from his own book as he says, “No wonder you spent so much time in the Hogwarts library, Granger. You can’t read a page without looking up to see what’s going on around you.”

Hermione snorts and goes back to her book.

Severus looks over at her. “Are you worried about the wards?”

“No.”

“Because I assure you they are sound.”

“I’m not worried about the wards. I guess I’m just too tired to read, is all.”

Severus smiles wickedly. “I don’t think that’s your problem, Granger.”

She starts to protest his invasion of her thoughts, then stops herself. She’d been using Occlumency—she knew she had. And she hadn’t felt him inside her head. Which meant he is trying to guess what she was thinking, trying to get her to confirm his suspicions by denying them. Hermione smiles and goes back to her book.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Severus smirk as he goes back to his.

Despite their veiled flirting at night, during their daytime hunts, they are all business, using Cushioning Charms on their feet as they search. The areas they travel are wild. Steep cliffs, sliding rock, and poisonous plants threaten to injure them at every turn. Severus knows most of the area, suggesting this trail or that for their wanderings.

One day, two weeks later, they find a previously undiscovered cave. It’s high on a cliff, a rocky protrusion jutting out at its base. Hermione Apparates them up to it, both of them hidden by a Disillusionment Charm. Once again, she is disappointed to see it’s fairly small, with no one living in it.

Since it’s midday, they decide to rest there and eat a cold lunch of rations and leftover coffee.

When Severus finishes, he leans back against the wall of the cave, a frown on his face as he looks out over the tops of the trees. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do if your Dark wizard isn’t here?” he asks.

Hermione shrugs. “I won’t leave until I’m certain.”

“But if you are certain?”

“I’ll just have to find another forest, and another, and another after that if I have to.”

“And what if he’s hiding in a huge city in China? Or the suburbs of Paris?”

“Then I’ll search those, too.”

Severus sighs. “Will you search the very ends of the Earth?” He turns his deep gaze on her.

“If I have to.”

“Go home, Hermione.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think. I understand where this road ends. You are wasting your life.”

“My life is not a waste!”

“You would direct so many talents, so many accomplishments, toward one evil person? They are not deserving of it.”

“You want me to go home?”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I wanted you to go home. But you should.”

“And then what happens to you?”

“Nothing happens to me. I stay here.”

Hermione tries to keep the hurt out of her voice. Of course, he owes her nothing. She hasn’t even kept her end of the bargain—not yet. “I just thought . . . that maybe . . .”

Severus scowls. “I don’t belong there anymore.”

“But you do! There’s a place for you.” Somehow Hermione’s thoughts of going home always included Severus. She never considered that he might not have changed his mind on the subject. _So all that flirting really was just flirting. He doesn’t really care about me. He’s just wants to satisfy his own needs._ In the back of her mind, Hermione knows she’s being unfair. (Hasn’t he just admitted he doesn’t want her to leave?) But she can’t help the disappointment that cuts through her like a dagger. Whatever he feels for her, it isn’t strong enough to get him to go home.

Severus stands. “Ready?” he asks, his voice calm.

She stands, too, allowing him to take her hand. “Yes.”

Hermione just closed her eyes, concentrating on the forest below, when a great whooshing sound fills the cave. Severus gasps. Her eyes fly open just in time to see a young dragon swoop into the cave and land inside the entrance. Its green skin and clever eyes transfix her, and she forgets what she’s supposed to be doing. Before Hermione can think to Apparate them out, it opens its great mouth and yawns.

Just as the stream of fire pours forth, Severus grabs Hermione and shoves her hard against the cave wall. The next moment the familiar tight squeeze of Disapparition swirls them out of the cave. 

They land with a thump in the forest, next to a waterfall. The same waterfall, in fact, where Hermione discovered who Severus really is.

Severus lets go of her as soon as they find their footing.

“You can Disapparate!” she says.

“I had to, Granger, or we’d quite literally be toast right now.”

“Is this the first time you’ve been able to?”

Severus doesn’t quite meet her eyes as he says, “No.”

“I don’t understand. Did the Potion work, after all? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“The Potion didn’t work,” he says. Now he looks at her properly, sighing.

The beautiful rushing sound of the waterfall does nothing to soften the realization once it strikes. Hermione gasps. “You’ve been able to do it all along.”

Severus nodded. “Yes,” he whispers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope to post two more chapters next week.


	22. Chapter 22

Hermione throws her hands up in the air. “Oh well this is just great! Am I ever going to be able to trust you, Severus?” Angry tears splash out of her eyes before she can stop them. But the look of pity Severus gives her only serves to make her angrier, and her tears hotter.

“Stop crying,” he says.

Hermione’s chest swells in anger. “You SHUT IT! I can’t believe this. Has it been fun, Snape, playing me along all this time, letting me believe I’m helping you, _getting me into your bed_?!”

“Now hang on! That’s not what it was about. If you’ll just let me get a word in, I’ll explain!”

“I’m tired of your explaining—”

“And has it occurred to you, Granger, that I am tired of you casting doubt over everything I do?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Yes. I can and I will. Have I not proven . . .” Severus breaks off, his look at once scathing and hurt.

“Hey!” someone calls. Hermione and Severus turn to see Charlie Weasley standing on top of the rocks leading down to the pool. 

Severus swears.

“Everything alright, Hermione?” Charlie calls as he scrambles down toward them. Hermione glances at Severus, who is already casting discreet Glamor Charms on himself, transforming back into Orev. By the time Charlie gets close enough to really see them, Severus Snape has disappeared.

Charlie frowns at the pair, his eyes lingering on Hermione’s puffy eyes. She hastily wipes the remaining tears on her sleeve. “Everything’s alright, Charlie,” she assures him.

“Doesn’t look alright. And what about you?” Charlie looks at Orev.

“Why don’t you keep your nose where it belongs, Weasley?” he sneers.

“I’m pretty sure it belongs right here.” Charlie grasps his wand a bit tighter. “Maybe it’s your nose that needs an adjustment. If you’ve upset Hermione, I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh _boys_ ,” Hermione says, interrupting their glaring at each other. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” says Charlie, not taking his eyes off Orev. “I’ve been looking for you. Hermione, this man is not who he claims to be.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, then remembers Charlie is only worried about her. “I know, Charlie.”

Orev shoots Hermione a warning look. Charlie notices it, and puffs up. “Then maybe you’d like to know that Severus Snape didn’t have any living relatives. None. Harry checked, then confirmed it with just about everybody he can think of. So this man here is someone else.”

“I _know_ , Charlie.” Hermione sighs, looking at Orev. But his jaw is set—apparently he’s not about to divulge his true identity to Charlie Weasley. She could, though, and in her current temper, she thinks it would serve him right.

“Then who are you?” Charlie asks Orev.

“Nobody—a concerned party,” Orev answers.

“Oh?” Hermione says, her tone biting. “Concerned, are you? About me or yourself?”

He turns to her. “About you of course.”

Charlie looks from one to the other.

“Prove it,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Prove it, right now. Tell him who you are.”

“How is that going to—?”

“Because if you don’t, Charlie won’t leave, and he’ll report back to Harry, who will be here before we can set up camp for the night. If you care about me, you won’t put my friends through all that.”

Orev snarls: “I don’t want _Potter_ anywhere near me. And if you’re going to stoop that low, Granger, then maybe I don’t want you near me, either.”

The words sting, no matter how Hermione tries to pretend they don’t.

“What the hell?” Charlie asks. He turns to Hermione.

Orev is seething, his face red, his fingers twitching. His wand is just up his sleeve, Hermione knows it. “If you tell him, Granger, I’ll Obliviate the both of you until all you can remember is your first birthday.”

Charlie raises his wand at Orev. But Orev and Hermione ignore him.

“I don’t remember my first birthday,” Hermione shoots back.

“Then you won’t remember anything at all,” he hisses.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“You know I would.” Orev towers over the both of them, magical power radiating from him in his temper.

Hermione grows cold. Maybe forgetting everything wouldn’t be such a bad idea. After all, what has her life become? She composes herself, letting the ice in her heart spill over into her words, as well. “Now I can see why Lily couldn’t pick you, after all. She couldn’t trust you.”

The words hit their mark. Hermione expects Orev to explode in a blaze of temper. But he doesn’t. His eyes turn cold, dangerous. Charlie looks at him and puts a hand on Hermione’s arm, as if to remove her at a moment’s notice. _But he’d be too slow_ , she realizes. If Severus wants to hurt her, Charlie will not be able to stop him.

But Orev’s wrath remains silent. He draws himself up, never taking his eyes off Hermione.

“Lily?” Charlie asks, glancing at Hermione.

Already the guilt from her words is taking hold. She shouldn’t have said that—she’s gone too far. She silently wills Charlie not to put it together, stepping away from him, toward Orev. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Yes,” Orev says. “And now we’re even. You’re right, though—it’s all been a mistake.”

The words cut Hermione deep, like he’s driven a knife between her ribs and twisted it around through her lungs. She shakes her head. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he whispers. With a nod at Charlie, Severus steps back and turns on his heel. As he disappears, his eyes look back at Hermione, and for the first time, she sees something like regret in them. Then his robes swirl around him and he’s gone.

..

.

..

_He’s gone_. 

Hermione can’t believe it. 

Yes, she can. She half wanted him to leave when she spoke about Lily.

“Hermione?” Charlie asks.

She stirs—she’s forgotten Charlie was there.

“I have to go after him,” she says, still staring at the spot where Severus disappeared.

“Do you know where he went?”

“No.” With a pang, Hermione realizes she has no idea where Severus would go. And if he truly wanted to leave, there would be no use looking for him.

“What was that about? Who is he?” Charlie speaks tentatively, as if he’s afraid Hermione will break.

She turns to him. “I’m ready to go home. Can I do that? Is it too late?”

“Of—of course you can! Why would you think you couldn’t?”

“Sometimes it’s too late to go home.”

Charlie reaches out and pulls Hermione into an awkward hug. “It’s never too late,” he whispers.

“It is for some.”

Charlie pulls back and looks at her. “Don’t you need to get your stuff?”

Hermione looks down. All she carries is her wand. Her purse, with all its books and personal items, is sitting on the table inside the tent, where she left it that morning. She doesn’t need it. All it contains are memories now—pale and painful indeed. Even the books don’t appeal to her anymore. There’s Harry’s letter, but if she goes home she can see him instead of rereading his words—she doesn’t need it.

“No,” she whispers. “Take me home.”

Charlie nods, then takes her hand. In a moment, the familiar, awful squeeze of Disapparition wraps around her body. What a horrible way to travel, after all. Magic should be grander than this. It should not be a physical manifestation of the pain within her heart.

But after a few more uncomfortable seconds, Hermione is standing at the gate of the Burrow.

Charlie has brought her all the way home.


	23. Chapter 23

Coming back to the Burrow isn’t quite how Hermione imagined. She had thought she’d have to endure a lot of awkwardness, confusion, and hurt. But there’s little of that, if any. The first person to see her is Molly, walking out the kitchen door with a broom in her hand. She gasps, then stumbles forward to grab Hermione and pull her into a hug.

“Oh my dear,” Molly says. Then she breaks down into sobbing onto Hermione’s shoulder. Charlie goes to find anyone else who might be around.

Hermione squeezes her back. “I’m sorry, Molly,” she says when Molly gains a little control.

“Now, now, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m just so glad.” Her eyes, always kind, are now tinged with the kind of sadness that never quite leaves, but they sparkle, too, as she looks Hermione up and down. Then she frowns. “Have you been starving yourself? And what about your hair? Oh Hermione . . .” And she breaks down crying again as she leads Hermione by the hand into the kitchen. 

No one is home, but Charlie soon summons everyone he can think of. Well, everyone Hermione might want to see just then. Harry arrives first, dropping his cloak on the floor as he strides into the house. He holds Hermione a long time without speaking. Relief washes out from him in waves, and Hermione is sorry she’s worried him, to the point that she can’t look Harry in the eye.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she whispers into his shoulder.

“Shhh,” he says. “It’s okay—you’re back now.” He pulls away to look at her. Then he frowns, not happy with what he sees. But he doesn’t chastise her. “Missed you,” he says, smiling through tears.

“I missed you.” She smiles.

More people arrive as the day goes on—George, Arthur, Ginny. Even Percy and Kingsley Shacklebolt show up later in the evening. Hermione knows they all have questions, but for the time being they are holding them back, respecting her space.

Bill and Fleur show up the next day. Then later in the week, Harry even brings over little Teddy Lupin to see “Aunt Hermione.”

“Have you contacted your parents, Hermione?” Arthur asks as they watch the five-year-old zoom around the living room on an old toy broom.

“Yes,” she answers. “I’m going to see them soon. Mum wanted me home right away, of course.”

“What did you tell them about your absence?”

“That I was traveling, needed a breather. They think I’ve been in America.”

“And were you?” Arthur’s the first person to ask Hermione directly about where she’s been. Charlie has been kind enough not to say anything yet.

“No, Arthur. I’ve been in Europe, mostly. And for the last few months—Romania.”

He nods, as if he expected as much. He doesn’t press her with more questions, but Hermione feels the need to explain. At dinner, the family sits down to eat, and she tells them almost everything—the libraries, the disguises, then her decision to go to Romania. She leaves out Severus. But Charlie’s still there, having decided to make a holiday out of the trip, and he doesn’t let her gloss over it.

“Hermione,” he says, “please tell us more about Orev.”

“Orev?” Molly asks, a look of concern crossing her face.

Harry puts down his fork and turns to her. Clearly he’s been waiting on the subject to come up.

Hermione flushes. “I wasn’t going to mention him, Charlie.”

“I figured. But considering I think he’s the reason you’ve come back to us, maybe we need to know a little about him.” 

Hermione holds Charlie’s gaze. He’s always been intelligent, but she’s never thought before that he might be shrewd as well. He’s right, Severus is the reason she’s back in England. If it weren’t for their argument and the awful thing she said, they’d still be in Romania. Although what their relationship would look like now, she can only guess.

Realizing she needs to tell them something, Hermione blinks back tears and says, “We met by chance. He was looking for a Dark wizard. So was I. I thought maybe we were looking for the same one.”

“And did you find anything?” asks George.

Hermione shakes her head.

“I don’t understand, though,” says Harry, “how he’s the reason you’re back. I’m grateful—but I don’t see the connection. What happened? And what’s all this business about him being related to Severus Snape. Because we checked—Snape doesn’t have an living relatives.”

Ginny nudges Harry. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Hermione shoots Ginny a thankful look. But she also doesn’t want to lose control of the conversation, so she says, “That I can’t explain for you, Harry. But Orev kept me out of danger.”

“Except for that business with Norberta,” Charlie says.

“Norberta!” Harrys says. “You saw her?”

“Who’s Norberta?” Molly asks.

“A dragon, mother,” says Ginny.

“Dragon!”

“Wait,” says Hermione, sensing she was losing the thread of the conversation. She turns to Harry. “You dragged me through all sorts of danger over the years, and I went with you because we were friends, and what you were doing was generally right. But if I choose to have an adventure of my own once in a while, what can you say?”

Hermione smiles, hoping to soften her words.

Harry smiles too. “Okay, Hermione, but what about this Orev? Who is he?”

She shakes her head. “Please don’t ask me. I’ve never kept anything from you unless I had good reason. And this is a good reason. Anyway, Orev was helpful, but in the end we just couldn’t seem to work together. Both of us have strong personalities, I think.”

The group around the table smiles, all of them knowing Hermione’s “strong” personality. She’s relieved they seem to accept this explanation for now. Harry glances at Hermione, but doesn’t press the issue any further. For now, anyway.

Harry and Ginny are blissfully happy. With the wedding less than three months away, they spend all their time together planning, or pretending to be planning. And they’re both so relieved Hermione is back that they include her as much as possible. After a while, though, as grateful as she is, she feels like the inevitable third wheel. She excuses herself as often as she can while still being polite, and takes to rambling in the Burrow’s garden or the surrounding fields. 

Shacklebolt has already asked her back to the Ministry. She can pick up her old job as soon as she’s ready. The thought of going back to an office every day sounds hollow now, though. And Hermione puts him off, avoids him, even, when she can.

She dreams of Severus now, instead of Ron. Of the look on Severus’s face as he Disapparates away from her. Why did it matter that he could Disapparate? Why did she get so mad? Although Hermione still feels she deserves an explanation, she should have waited for him to give it. He obviously wanted to.

Sometimes, Hermione dreams about Severus lying in bed with her. He’ll hover over her, kissing her lips, then her neck, then slide lower to her collar. He always pauses to look at her before pulling it down to kiss her below it, cautious even in her dreams. He never gets far, though, before she wakes.

One night, Hermione wakes in the dark, still in her room at the Burrow, sweating from the memory of his kisses. If he won’t touch her in her dreams, she can fantasize about him, anyway. She runs her own hands over her body, under the thin t-shirt she wears to bed. But _imagining_ Severus’s hands on her feels inadequate, even less satisfying than her dreams. She wants the real thing. She turns over and tries to go back to sleep, hoping she’ll dream a little further this time.

Weeks go by. Hermione meets up with her parents (after gaining a little weight so they don’t ask too many awkward questions). They had missed her—and of course they were worried, especially since she left just after Ron’s passing. But Mr. and Mrs. Granger had long ago realized Hermione would never fully be theirs, after she left for Hogwarts. So they take what information she gives them and enjoy the time they have with her. She tells them about Harry and Ginny’s wedding, inviting them on her friends’ behalf. They promise to be there.

Three weeks before the wedding, Hermione decides to find a flat in London and go back to work. Her long idleness has been unusual, and she’s beginning to feel well enough that long days spent cooped up in the house are draining her in another way altogether.

Thinking to spend a day in Diagon Alley before looking at places to rent, she stops over to see George at the shop. Witches and wizards stop in the street to look at Hermione Granger, heroine of the wizarding world. She’s forgotten about the stares. Those are unfortunate. Ignoring the looks, she enters the shop and runs straight into George.

“Hermione!” he gives her a quick hug and then stands back to look at her. “You look good. I don’t know if you were aware, but you looked quite like a skeleton after you returned from Romania. For once, I was glad to see Mum fussing over somebody to eat.”

Hermione smiles. “She’s not done yet.”

George nods. “And she never will be. Heard you were going back to work.”

“It’s about time, yes?”

“I’ll say. Lying around the house isn’t for just anybody, you know. Mind, I could do with a lie-in once in a while. But Angelina comes round to give me a day off now and then.”

“How’s that going—with Angelina?” Hermione asks with a smile.

“Oh . . .” He rocks back and forth on his heels, beaming. “Can’t tell you too much—don’t want to steal any of Ginny and Harry’s limelight.”

“I’m glad, George.”

“Yeah, me too.” He grins. “So, can I interest you in a fake wand?”

Hermione spends the afternoon at the shop, letting George lift her spirits. And maybe lift his, as well. He’s never quite been the same after Fred died. And then with Ron gone . . . She tries to shove down the guilt. She shouldn’t have left—she could have helped George and Ginny. They were Ron’s closest siblings, after all.

But maybe she hasn’t been capable of helping anybody (least of all Severus). Maybe it was good she left to grieve, so she didn’t cause more damage.

“Hey,” George says. 

“Yeah?” Hermione looks up at him, thinking she’s missed something he was telling her. But George is looking out the window. A man is standing in front of the shop in black robes and a black cloak. The hood is pulled up. He isn’t moving, just standing there.

“Who’s that?” George asks.

Hermione’s heart jumps into her throat. _No, can’t be._ But she can’t mistake the height, the build, even beneath the robes and cloak. Maybe _because_ of the robes and cloak.

_Severus._

She jumps off the stool she’s sitting on and goes to the door. When the man sees her, he turns and leaves, striding down Diagon Alley so quickly Hermione has to run just to keep him in sight. 

Behind her, she hears George shout for her to wait.

“Hey!” she calls, not wanting to shout Severus’s name in the street. She bumps into another witch, mumbles an apology, and turns to find him again. 

He’s gone.

In the heat of the moment, Hermione casts a Patronus, sending it after the man. He’ll stop for that—for her otter. 

Hermione looks in every shop as she passes, hoping he’s standing there—as Orev or Severus she doesn’t care. But he’s nowhere. She even goes down Knockturn Alley, checking all the windows. She creates just as much stir here as Diagon Alley, perhaps more so—the famous Hermione Granger wandering down London’s most notorious shopping district. 

But no matter where she looks, where she turns, the man she wants is not there.

Finally, at the end of Knockturn Alley, she finds her Patronus. The otter curls around her, as if in apology for not retrieving her friend. He really is gone, then.

But she knows Severus was there. 

_He was there_. Which means she’s going to see him again.

******End Chapter******

A/N: Look for the next chapter tomorrow! ;)

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A few people have asked about the time frame for the last chapter. Hermione saw Severus in Diagon alley about two months after she left Romania. Sorry it wasn’t clear!

Two days before the wedding, Hermione goes back to the Burrow to stay with Ginny and help with arrangements. It’s the first opportunity Ginny’s had to question Hermione about the man she chased through Diagon Alley.

“Who did you think he was?” Ginny asks as she tries on her dress in her room for Hermione. It’s all swishy satin, with just the right amount of lace.

“Oh Ginny that’s lovely! I wish I’d been there when you picked it out.”

“You don’t. Mum was a mess—cried all day. So?”

Hermione sighs. “I thought he was Orev.”

Ginny’s eyebrows almost reach her hairline. “The man you met in Romania?”

“Yes.”

“Was it him?”

“I think so, but I never got a good look at him.”

Ginny sits down on the bed next to Hermione, carefully fanning out her short train so it won’t wrinkle. “But . . .”—she lowers her voice—“why would he be here? Did he come to see you?”

“If he did, he didn’t actually want to speak to me.”

“Is he good-looking?”

“Oh Ginny.” Hermione sighs. “In his own way, he is.”

“It’s okay, you know,” Ginny says quietly, “to think he is. It won’t change how you feel about Ron.”

“Sometimes I think it does.”

Ginny shakes her head. “We all want you to be happy, Hermione, don’t you know that?”

“Yes.” Hermione smiles. “I still can’t help feeling sometimes that I should have done more for Ron. That I could have saved him.”

“That’s normal, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t have wanted to be able to save Ron? But we’re not talking about my dear brother, as much as I miss him. Tell me more about Orev.”

“There’s not much I can tell you.”

“Can’t, or won’t? Harry knew you were holding something back.”

Hermione nods. “He’s right.”

“Is this something I’m going to be able to wheedle out of you, or is your mind set?”

“It’s set. The secret’s not mine to tell.”

“So it’s a secret. Lovely. Just what I need to be obsessed with during my wedding.”

“Tell Harry—”

“Oh no, I’m not telling Harry anything. Not with this. You tell him.” With that, Ginny stands and begins removing her dress.

“Will he be very mad?”

“You know him as well as I do.”

“Maybe not quite so well anymore, Ginny,” Hermione says, chuckling.

Ginny grins. “You know what I mean. But to answer your question, Harry’s been so relieved since you’ve been back, I think you could tell him you were marrying Professor Severus Snape and he’d be happy for you.”

Hermione blushes so hotly she needs to pretend to have something stuck in her throat. She coughs to add effect. Ginny summons a water glass from the bedside table and hands it to her. “Bad example, sorry,” she says, patting Hermione’s back.

The rest of the family is piled into the Burrow, so Hermione shares Ginny’s room. Molly comes in every night, crying about Ginny finally leaving the house (although Ginny’s been off playing Quidditch so long she hasn’t properly lived at the Burrow since leaving Hogwarts.) Ginny finally reminds her mother she’ll see more of her now that she’ll be back in England permanently. Placated, Molly leaves.

The night before the wedding, the family has a big dinner at the Burrow. Since it’s cold, they pile inside around the table, a huge fire roaring in the fireplace. The house smells of turkey and spices and hot cocoa. Empty places are left for Fred and Ron. Hermione sits next to Ron’s seat, with Harry on her other side. Despite the empty places, the family is in good spirits. Arthur toasts the couple; everyone cheers. 

For Hermione, the evening is bittersweet. She’s happy for them—how can she not be?—but she can’t help wishing for it to be over. She’s ready to go back to her tiny flat in London. 

George has just stood and given a rather bawdy toast. Molly’s in the middle of scolding him for making Ginny (—Molly!) blush, when a bell dings, signaling someone standing at the garden gate, at the edge of the wards.

Looking relieved, George jumps up. “I’ll get it!”

Hermione stands. “No, I’ll check. Probably just a last-minute wedding delivery.” She winks at George as Molly begins her tirade anew, then excuses herself from the table. 

She opens the door, letting the light from the house extend out into the garden. Someone is indeed standing at the gate, but Hermione pulls the door closed so cold air doesn’t get in the house. She lights her wand and hurries down the lane.

“What are you delivering?” she asks, her breath rising in the cold air.

She draws up short as the light from her wand reaches the hooded man standing at the gate. A large bundle squirms on the ground behind him. “What the—”

“Shhh . . .” says Severus (or Orev, because that’s who throws off the hood to look at her).

Hermione stands, stricken, on the other side of the gate, hoping she’s not imagining things, fearing she is. She alternates between wanting to launch herself into his arms and hex him for waiting so long to show up.

Orev looks uncertain, too, his gaze somewhere between fear and . . . triumph?

Hermione finally summons her wits and opens the gate. But instead of stepping through it, Orev grabs her hand and pulls her out onto the path. “I have something to show you,” he says. “Will you come with me?”

“Now? I can’t just leave . . .” She turns and gestures toward the house. Should she invite him in? What would _that_ encounter look like?

“Was that you in Diagon Alley?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“I just wanted to see that you were alright. A reunion in the middle of a busy street didn’t seem like the right place.”

“I thought you said you weren’t coming back.”

Orev steps closer. He still has a hold of her hand, but he doesn’t try to touch her in any other way. “Will you come with me? I’ll bring you back in time for the wedding.”

“You know about it, then.”

“Can’t miss it. Potter’s picture is plastered on every wizarding newspaper between here and Romania.”

“I’m sorry for what I said about Lily,” Hermione blurts as if he’s going to disappear before she gets a chance to say it.

“Yes, well . . .” He grimaces. “I may have had it coming.”

She shakes her head.

The back door opens, casting warm yellow light out into the garden. “It’s freezing!” Harry says. “Have them come in, Hermione. We’ll get it sorted where it’s warm.”

Orev eyes Harry standing there in the doorway, but he doesn’t say anything, or even scowl. 

“Well?” Hermione says, taking it as progress. “Want to come in?”

Orev turns back to her. “I want _you_ to come with _me_. But I think I may be asking too much.”

“No. No, you’re not. I’ll come with you.” She turns back to Harry and calls, “Everything’s alright. I’ll be back.”

“What?” Harry leaves the door wide open and starts out the doorway. But before he can reach them, Orev bends down to grab the bundle behind him, grips Hermione’s hand more firmly, and Disapparates.

..

.

..

They land in a field similar to the one next to the Burrow. Severus drops the thing he’s holding in his other hand, and Hermione hears a muffled _oomph!_

“What’s that?” She lets go of Severus to see what he’s brought with him.

A man—he’s brought a man with him—bound and gagged, lying on the ground wearing dark robes, shivering in the cold.

Hermione pulls away. “What is this?”

“This”—Severus aims a kick at the man’s leg—“is our Dark wizard.”

“Wh—what?”

“Found him in another cave, cowering over a pitiful fire.”

She goes around to look at the man. He has dark hair, pale skin. She doesn’t know him, as far as she can tell. He looks up at her with wide, pleading eyes.

Hermione looks at Severus. “Are you sure?” 

Severus nods. “I’ve . . . questioned . . . him.”

Hermione shivers, though not from cold. She stares at the man at their feet.

“He told me a great deal,” Severus continues, looking at Hermione, “including a devious little plot about how he slipped a curse onto a golf ball which was destined to enter Hogwarts as a memento.”

Although she’s anticipated what Severus is saying, actually hearing it drives a cold sort of numbness into Hermione’s heart.

“He used some pretty clever charm and curse work, I must admit. The ball didn’t activate until it hit the table, then rolled off and waited for a passerby.”

Severus doesn’t take his eyes off her. “That’s why no one could find any leads. He was never in the castle.”

“But . . .”

This is him? This man, shaking with fear (or cold—hard to tell which), is Ron’s murderer?

“But?” he asks.

“But how did no one remember the golf ball being placed there to begin with?”

“Ah. A simple Obliviate.”

Hermione pulls out her wand and uses it to remove the gag from the man’s mouth. “What’s your name?”

The man looks from Hermione to Severus.

“Hey!” She pokes him with the wand. “I’m the one with the wand in your face. What’s your name?”

The man laughs.

“I haven’t been able to get that,” Severus says from behind. “The one thing he hasn’t told me. And I’ve never met him before, so he wasn’t in the Dark— _You-Know-Who’s_ —Inner Circle.”

The laughing grows, crescendoing until it’s a mad cackle that echoes through the cold air. Afraid someone will hear him, Hermione returns the gag to his mouth. He continues to cackle in his throat, his eyes shining like a wild animal’s in Hermione’s wandlight.

She stands and says, “He’s obviously mad.”

“Did you expect any different?”

“Why did you bring him to me?”

Severus shrugs and turns to her. “To give you first claim on his life.”

Hermione looks back at the man. _Here’s my chance._ She’s been waiting for this moment, wishing for it, afraid of it. Now the murderer is packaged up and waiting on her to pronounce a sentence. She knows the curse— _Avada Kedavra._ Simple, effective. Then this man who caused her so much grief will be gone. He may not even suffer. Too bad, that.

His eyes bulge as he strains against his bonds. But his laughter continues, mocking Hermione and the world. 

Hermione wants to hate him—part of her does. She hates him for what he’s done, but also for his failure to look evil. He doesn’t look wicked, just insane. He’s not attacking her or threatening her in any way. If he were, killing him would be simple. She could fight him and win, like she had many other times. But she’s never killed, not on purpose, and certainly not an unarmed man, no matter how wicked. Now she knows how Harry must have felt when he stopped Sirius and Lupin from killing Peter Pettigrew.  

For a moment, Hermione feels cheated out of something. A dream, maybe, of the vindication she would feel in catching Ron’s killer. But it’s not there. 

She looks back to Severus, who’s been standing next to her in silence, waiting on her to make a decision. “And if I don’t want his life?” she asks.

The madman at their feet wheezes, he’s laughing so hard. Severus casts a Muffliato around them so they don’t have to listen. “So. You’ve changed your mind.”

“I—I didn’t know what I was saying, Severus.”

His eyes flash.

“You can’t be disappointed.”

He shakes his head. “Of course not—you’re following my advice, after all.” He lowers his voice and murmurs, “Even if I’m not the one who convinced you it was the right path.”

“But you are! I just needed some time to see it.”

“No, I am not. I told you before, you have to really _want_ to use the Dark Arts, to want to change. You wanted to change, but not in this way.”

“And if I had? If I wanted to kill him?”

Severus moves closer, his dark gaze searching her face. “Oh I think you want to, or some small part of you wants to. And it wouldn’t change how I feel about you if you did. But the difference is you won’t kill him because you know it will damage you.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “That makes all the difference, Hermione.”

Hermione lays a hand on his arm, wanting to to ask him more. What does he mean by _how I feel about you_? But now’s not the time. “What are you going to do with him?”

Severus stares down at the man with a look of pure revulsion. Hermione shivers at the anger in his eyes. “What I’ve done with all of them,” he says. “You and I are different.”

“No.”

His gaze snaps up to hers. “Must we fight about everything?”

She smiles, catching him off guard. “Only the important things. And this is important. I want to turn him in.”

“Hermione, for Merlin’s sake, _why_?”

“Because if you get rid of him, the rest of Ron’s family will never have closure. They’ll never know what happened. And . . . I don’t want to regret it some day.”

Severus scoffs. “You can’t save me from something I’ve already done.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve done, but I do know this man is still alive. And he needs to stay that way, so Ron’s family can find peace.”

“Do they know about me?”

“They know about Orev because Charlie told them. That’s about it.”

“Thank you.” Severus looks like he’s about to kiss her, attack her right there in the field, but he stops himself and says, “You can always let me dispose of him, then tell them.”

“That would only work if you were determined never to come back.”

“But I—”

“Nonsense.” Hermione sniffs. “If you weren’t planning on coming back at all, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Severus steps so close she can feel the heat from his body. He puts a hand on her cheek. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he breathes.

Hermione frowns. “Let’s get rid of the madman at our feet first, shall we?”

Although they can’t hear him, the man is still writhing in laughter. She pities him mostly, wondering if he went mad before or after he killed Ron.

She decides it doesn’t matter. What does matter is Severus found him for _her_ , not for anybody else. And that matters a great deal.

For the moment, it’s all that matters.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We’re not done yet, of course. Will Severus be able to return?  We’ll see. ;)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for recent reviews. I hope you don’t think I forgot about you. I wrote this chapter and it ended up being three times as long as the previous ones. But there was a clear dividing place, so I separated it into two. Tomorrow’s chapter is going to be extra long, I think. ;)

******Chapter TWENTY-FIVE******

They Disapparate back to the Burrow together. Hermione could have managed it on her own, of course, but Severus insists on seeing her to the garden gate. Lights are still on in the house. Music leaks outside into the garden. 

“What are you going to do with him?” Hermione asks, nodding to the madman at their feet. “Tonight’s hardly the time to reveal him to the Weasleys and Harry.”

“Reveal who to Harry?” Harry stands from where he’s been sitting inside the gate.

Hermione jumps. “Harry! What are you doing there?”

“Who’s this?” Harry asks, looking at Orev, then at the man at their feet. “What’s going on?”

“Harry, I can explain everything,” Hermione says in a rush. “Please don’t jump to any conclusions.”

“Who says I’m jumping to conclusions?” He eyes Orev with a look of distrust. “You’re awfully silent.”

Orev sneers. “And you—”

“Harry,” Hermione says loudly, cutting off whatever horrible thing he is about to say to Harry, “I’d like you to meet Orev. Orev, Harry Potter.”

Harry looks bewildered. “This is Orev? What’s he doing here?”

“Harry Potter,” Orev says with his usual smirk. “Your manners and reputation precede you.”

“How do you mean?”

“ _Harry_ ,” says Hermione. “Orev has brought you something—all of us—a sort of present for the family.”

Orev chokes, his smirk sliding off his face as he glares at Hermione.

“Okay,” she amends, “he brought it for me, but the rest of you will be just as . . . thrilled. But tonight is not the right time . . .”

Harry opens the gate and walks through, inspecting the man on the ground. “Is it your custom, Orev, to leave a man to freeze to death while you make introductions?”

“I do when that man is a murderer.”

Harry jerks his attention to Orev, then back to Hermione. She nods and whispers, “Yes.”

The moment when Harry makes the connection between the man at their feet and the presence of Orev is visible on Harry’s face. He recoils away from the madman as if he’s been stung. Hermione goes to him, grabbing his hand. “Orev found him. He was hiding in Romania, just as I thought.”

But Harry is pulling out his wand, his eyes flashing.

“Harry—NO!” Hermione grabs Harry’s wand arm, trying to hold him back from doing whatever he is about to do. She and Harry grapple for a moment. Orev jumps in to pry Hermione away from Harry, whose face is twisted in pain and anger. 

“Don’t do it, Harry!” Hermione says.

Because she can see that Harry is going to kill Ron’s murderer. She grips his arm as tightly as she can, throwing all her body weight against him.

But Harry is much stronger than Hermione. He shoves her backward. “Let me do it, Hermione!”

Hermione flies back into Orev’s chest; anger is rippling off of Orev in waves, and he raises his own wand faster than Hermione can blink. She cringes as Harry stands over the madman, his wand pointed at his chest. The man laughs and laughs.

She turns to Orev and whispers, “Severus, please don’t let him do it.”

Harry’s head jerks up at the mention of Severus’s name, but he keeps his wand trained on the murderer. His face is wrought with pain and guilt and anger.

Orev stops pointing his wand at Harry and says, “I cannot make this decision for him, Hermione.”

They all stand there, frozen in place, Harry’s wand on the madman, Orev holding Hermione, Hermione holding her breath.

Harry’s eyes slide from Orev’s face to lock with Hermione’s. She sees the questions there, the wish to understand, the sadness. It’s all in her own gaze, she knows. She silently pleads with him not to do this thing—to make the same decision she made. Big tears splash down her face.

Finally Harry draws back and lowers his wand. His decision made, he leans over and puts his hands on his knees.

The man at their feet begins laughing again.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry says. He straightens and steps away from the murderer to hold her. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again as she buries her face in his chest.

“We weren’t going to tell you tonight.”

“What’s going on out here?” Arthur yells.

The people in the house are spilling out in the yard, voices raised in alarm.

Hermione pulls away and looks at Orev. Harry gathers himself and strides back into the garden. He stands between the family and the scene outside the gate. “Sorry everybody, a little misunderstanding.”

“It’s not the right time,” Hermione whispers to Orev. “Please.”

Orev nods, his gaze lingering on hers as if to check if she’s alright, then grabs the madman and Disapparates.

..

.

..

“You think after you just wandered off I was going to go inside and explain to everyone that I’d let you leave again?” Harry hisses later as everyone is saying their goodnights. They avoided telling anyone what had really happened by Harry pretending to have had an argument with the delivery boy. “I was waiting to make sure you were okay, Hermione.”

“I told you I was alright.” She smiles at Molly, who is watching them shrewdly from the kitchen.

“And I’m incapable of just accepting that. After all we’ve been through, anything out of ordinary is suspect.”

“I know that,” she says quietly.

“But is it really the guy? How does Orev know? I need to go up to the Ministry.”

“Harry! You’re getting married tomorrow.”

Harry looks over at Ginny, who also is becoming suspicious of their whispered conversation. He smiles at her—a heartfelt, sad smile. “But where did Orev take him?”

“Orev is going to turn him in, just like I asked. I wish you hadn’t been out there, Harry. You weren’t to know until after the wedding. No one was.”

“Except for you.” Harry looks at Hermione, his green eyes checking Hermione’s face, searching for forgiveness. “I’m really sorry for pushing you.”

“I’m okay, Harry. If you apologize anymore, someone really will know something happened.”

“Hey, Harry,” George interrupts, coming up to them, “Nervous much?”

Harry laughs. “Just a little stressed. All this wedding stuff . . .”

“It’s mostly for the women, huh?” Ginny asks, coming up behind George.

Harry shakes his head and squeaks, “‘Course not.”

“Everyone say goodnight,” Molly calls from the kitchen.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Ginny wraps her arms around Harry’s neck and whispers something, then draws back and smiles. He kisses her. 

“Don’t pick any more fights between now and the wedding, huh?” she says before walking upstairs with Hermione.

“What was that about?” Ginny asks as soon as they are safe in her room.

“I would tell you,” says Hermione, “but you’re just going to have to trust me.”

“With what?”

Hermione smiles, thinking of Orev. “Everything.”

She goes to the window, which looks out over the front yard. Beneath them, just outside the wards and outside the glow of lights from the house, stands a hooded and cloaked figure. He looks up at her. Hermione wonders what Severus did with the madman. She sighs—she’ll know soon enough.

..

.

..

The next morning, excitement runs through the house as everyone bustles around with last minute preparations. Guests begin arriving at noon, and soon the chairs outside under the pavilion are full.

Hermione helps Ginny with her hair, then her dress. They haven’t seen Harry all morning, so Hermione assumes he’s dealing with last night’s news by himself. She hates that he’s alone, thinking of Ron’s killer on his wedding day, having to keep the secret by himself.

“I want you to tell me about Orev,” Ginny says, then adds, “as a wedding present.” She winks at Hermione.

Hermione smiles and glances out the window. Severus isn’t there anymore, but she suspects he’s close. Just then, Harry’s enormous stag Patronus bursts through the bedroom door. It canters around Ginny once before coming to a standstill next to her.

It’s time.

When Ginny walks down the aisle toward Harry, everyone in attendance agrees they are the happiest couple on Earth. They exchange vows just as the sun hits a flower arbor over the couple. It is magical and heartfelt and the most beautiful thing Hermione has witnessed in a long time. Their vows complete, Harry kisses Ginny while the crowd applauds.

Hermione claps with them, happening to look over toward the house. The hooded Severus is there, waiting on her. But she isn’t able to excuse herself until much later, after toasts and cake. When the dancing begins, she goes to find him.

He finds her first, wearing perfectly clean robes and his best Orev face. He catches her hand as she makes her way through the crowd.

“Can I have a dance?” he murmurs into her ear.

Hermione smiles. “I didn’t take you for a wedding crasher, _Orev_.”

“Oh you’d be surprised.” He spins her out toward the crowded dance floor in the middle of the pavilion. “I hear the bridesmaids are always the most desperate at weddings.”

“Then I’ll have to find you one. Technically, I’m here for Harry.”

“A grooms-maid?” He pulls her close just as the song changes to something slow, his hands on her waist.

Hermione places her hands on his chest. “People will see us. They won’t stop asking questions as it is.”

“Let them see,” he says.

“So you’re coming back?”

Orev frowns. They sway with the music without really moving. Hermione allows him to draw her closer, holding his body to hers. “What is it?” she asks.

“I brought your stuff.”

“My stuff?”

“Your bag. And the tent is in my pocket.”

“Why didn’t you put it in the bag?”

“Rule Number Two: Don’t get inside your bag.” 

She laughs. “I believe it was _Don’t touch my bag._ ”

Orev smirks. “Damn—I broke that one, too, then.”

They dance a while longer. Then Hermione says, “We need to talk.”

“So talk.”

“I don’t mean here.”

Orev pulls back to look at her and smiles. He really is nice-looking when he’s relaxed and smiling. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says.

“Orev?” asks Harry. He and Ginny have danced their way over. Ginny beams at how close Hermione is standing to Orev. Harry looks less thrilled.

Orev sniffs. “Yes, Potter.”

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you.”

Ginny looks puzzled and asks, “For what?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Harry says.

“I expect it’ll be in the Daily Prophet tomorrow,” Orev says. 

Hermione gasps, and he looks back at her.

“Had to,” he says. “It’s better this was out of my hands.”

“And mine, too,” Harry says. He lets go of Ginny long enough to extend his hand to Orev.

“Harry, what is going on?” Ginny asks.

Orev hesitates in taking Harry’s offer of friendship. Would Harry be extending it if he knew who Orev really was? Does he suspect anyway after her slip of the tongue last night? Hermione knows Harry would make peace with Severus Snape; Orev does not. Then, to Hermione’s surprise, Orev nods and shakes Harry’s hand. 

Harry then takes Ginny by the hand and says, “Come on, let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

He leads her away, and Hermione looks back at Orev. “Us, too?”

He smiles. 

They walk together to the edge of the property, out to the lane. Severus turns to look at Hermione. His gaze is intense— _I-want-to-snog-you-senseless_ intense.

“I found Kingsley Shacklebolt,” he says suddenly. “Gave him quite a shock.”

“So he knows who you really are? Which means you’re back.” Hermione can’t help smiling.

“That depends, Granger.”

“On what?”

Arthur sees them standing at the edge of the crowd and waves. Hermione waves back. He starts over for them.

“Let’s get out of here,” Orev says.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Pick someplace.”

Hermione flashes one more smile toward Arthur, shakes her head at him, grabs Orev, and Disapparates.

 

*****End Chapter*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, everybody, looks like we’re going to have 30 chapters—a long way from the original 10 I had planned. But I’ve just had so much fun with this story, and you’ve been so wonderful, that I had to keep writing it!
> 
> **I just wanted to let you know that I offer a free book on my website. It’s a prequel to my original sci-fi thriller series, Shadowmark. A completely original story. If you like my storyline in this fanfic, I think you might like my series, too—a lot of mystery, strong female characters, a dark, mysterious man (starting with Book 1), and a fun, twisty plot. You can find the link on my profile.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just read The Cursed Child! I know, I know—I’m extremely late to that party. But it triggered some thoughts about a new fanfic based on one of the alternate realities from that play. I bet you can’t guess which one… ;)
> 
> Maybe when I’m done with this, that’ll be the next direction I go. I’d like to write something darker…

**********Chapter TWENTY-SIX********

 

They land outside her apartment building. Their dress robes would cause curious looks among the Muggles if there were any about to see. But it’s dark, and the street is free from curious eyes. Hermione unlocks the front door, then leads Orev up the narrow staircase to her flat.

“I haven’t been home in a few days,” she says at her door. When she turns, Orev is no longer looking at her, but Severus—he’s dropped the Glamor Charm. Her heart skips a beat. He’s older-looking now, and infinitely more dangerous-looking. A tiny thrill runs through her spine.

“You brought me to your place?” he asks, interrupting her gazing.

She shrugs. “Would you rather discuss things in our wizarding attire at the Muggle coffee shop across the street? Or perhaps somewhere in Diagon Alley where we’ll be crushed by a throng of people wondering why Hermione Granger is with a Severus Snape lookalike?”

He smirks and leans toward her, pressing her back against the door. Then he props his hand behind her, an echo of the time he backed her up against the tree. “I think this will do, Granger. But I am seeking some advice.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes. This witch I know stirred me up, then left. Ever since then, I’ve been wondering if she’s ready to forgive me for being an arse. Because I’ve thought of nothing except her since she left . . . And I really want her to give me another chance.”

Hermione drops her keys.

Severus smirks. “Smooth, Granger. Do you expect me to pick them up?”

Thinking to one-up him, Hermione casts a silent _Alohomora_ on her apartment door. She doesn’t anticipate it opening on its own, though. Suddenly it’s not behind her. Since both she and Severus were leaning quite heavily on it, they fall through it. Hermione lands flat on her back. Severus lands on top of her, knocking the air out of her lungs.

“ _Oomph!_ ”they both say.

Severus recovers first, propping himself on his elbow to look down at Hermione. His eyes flash with mischief. Hermione gulps.

“As much as I like you, Wren, you do have an unfortunate habit of using the most painful ways to get me on top of you. You could have just asked.”

Hermione blushes and says, “What would be the fun in that?” She pushes at him to move, and he climbs to his feet, pulling her with him.

“Okay?” he asks when they’re standing.

“I may have bruised something.” She says, rubbing her tailbone.

“I’ll take a look at it for you.” 

“Because you’re so good at evaluating injuries?”

“That’s one reason.”

Hermione leaves him to close the door and walks through the tiny foyer into her flat, a tiny one-bedroom. They pass the bedroom door on the left. The eat-in kitchen is just beyond, open to a sitting area on the right.The living room only fits a short couch, a chair, and a side table. It has a fireplace, but Hermione hasn’t had a chance to use it yet. Boxes line the only blank wall in the room.

She turns, watching Severus take it all in. Since there’s not much, it doesn’t take him long. “I just moved in,” she explains, nodding to the boxes. They are full of her books. It’s a testament to how busy she’s been that she hasn’t found the time to unpack and arrange them.

Severus’s eyes land on her. “I think this is smaller than your tent.”

“It’s much warmer, though.” Hermione smiles. She had noticed it, too, especially with Severus here. For some reason, he feels bigger in the small, confined space of her flat.

“You aren’t going to bother with a few Extension Charms?”

“I’m not here much.”

His eyes are still on hers. The look he’s giving Hermione unnerves and excites her at the same time. “Care for a drink?” she asks.

“What do you have?”

“Tea. Oh and a bottle of wine my parents gave me as a housewarming gift.”

“Let’s try that.”

Hermione expects him to sit down and wait for her, but he follows her across the room into the tiny kitchen. “I’m glad I’ve unpacked the dishes, at least,” she says, trying to diffuse a little of the tension building in the room. She hands him two wine glasses and then retrieves the wine. He holds while she pours, his eyes never leaving her.

“Severus,” she says, taking a sip. The wine is a strong red with a bit of an earthy aftertaste. She should have offered to cook him something to go with it. Too bad she doesn’t have any groceries.

He’s waiting on her to continue, taking a sip but still following her with his eyes.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks innocently. But his mouth betrays him, the corner playing upwards just a little. 

“Like you’re going to devour me.”

Severus sets his glass down on the counter and reaches for her. “You don’t want to be devoured?” he murmurs. He pulls her body against his, one hand at her waist, the other snaking its way into her hair. Then he leans back against the counter, so she’s off-balance just enough to have to rest her weight on him.

Hermione’s heart thumps against her chest. She would feel self-conscious about it, but his is doing the same thing. She only just manages to set down her own glass before Severus kisses her. The lingering taste of wine on his lips is enticing, and she follows it into his mouth with her tongue. He moans and deepens the kiss, pulling her closer, his arm coming all the way around her back to lift her off the floor.

Her breasts are crushed against his chest, and she can feel every deep breath he takes, every wild beat of his heart, every muscle taut with anticipation. She wonders if she feels the same to him.

Then Severus lets go, and Hermione slides down his chest to land on her feet. They stand there a minute, trying to catch their breaths, waiting for the other to make another move.

Finally, Severus picks up their glasses. “Maybe I need to do a little explaining.”

Hermione realizes this is what she’s been waiting for. She wants to be in his arms, but she also wants to know that the man standing before her is willing to be honest, to have her trust him. She takes his hand and leads him to the couch, where they sit facing each other.

“Hungry?” she asks, realizing it’s the second time in ten minutes she’s thought about food.

“Yes.” His eyes flash to her, letting the double meaning sink in.

“I could order us takeout, or a pizza?”

“Pizza?” he repeats, frowning.

“You don’t like it?”

“Haven’t had it in a long time.”

“Well, then,” Hermione says, back on solid ground, “let’s fix that.”

She gets up to find her cell phone—one she keeps for just this sort of thing.

“There are other things I haven’t had in a long time as well,” Severus says, smirking. “Can you fix those, too?”

Hermione dials the pizza place down the street and kisses him while she waits for someone to pick up. “You’re just full of yourself tonight, aren’t you?” 

He makes a grab for her, but she jumps out of reach just as someone comes on the line. When she finishes placing their order, she lays down the phone and looks at him. “Twenty minutes. Look, I’m going to have to get changed into Muggle clothes before they deliver it. Mind if I have a quick shower, too?”

The look Severus gives her tells Hermione her words have the intended effect. She winks at him and turns for the bedroom. But he stands and snatches her wrist before she can leave.

“What?” she asks.

“I just want to know one thing,” he purrs.

“And that is?”

“Are you wearing those delightful leggings under your dress robes?”

“Umm. No. They are dress robes after all.”

Severus’s breath hitches in his throat. Then he pushes Hermione back until she’s up against the wall next to the bedroom door. And suddenly she can’t find her breath.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. He searches her eyes, looking for her answer before she gives it.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Severus moves a hand down to grab her robes, gathering them in his fists before sliding them up her legs. Then without warning he grabs her thighs and lifts her off her feet. At the same time, he pushes her hard into the wall, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist.

Hermione gasps at the new contact, at the feeling of vulnerability as Severus presses against her. His hands on her bare thighs send a jolt of electricity up her legs, straight to her core. He buries his face into her neck, inhaling deeply, breathing in her scent.

“Hermione,” he whispers. His lips tickle her skin, sending more tingling down her spine. He gently, cautiously thrusts his hips against her, his robes pushing against her most sensitive spot. She arches against him, recovering enough to tangle her fingers in his hair.

“I know we need to talk,” he begins, his lips still brushing her neck.

Hermione waits for him to finish his sentence, but he’s breathing heavily now, his breath hot and moist. She tugs his head back so she can see his eyes. They’re more intense than she’s ever seen them—black, fierce, and hot. 

“Severus—”

“Marry me,” he says suddenly.

Hermione’s heart stops beating, and she gapes. She knows she looks stupid, like a dunderheaded first year, but . . .

Severus shifts like he’s going to set her down.

She grabs his shoulders. “Wait. Did—did you just ask me to marry you?”

His eyes bore into hers. “Yes.” His eyes glance down to where their bodies meet. “I admit this isn’t the most traditional of approaches.”

“Did you plan this?”

“You’re asking if I really want to marry you or if I’m just caught up in the moment?”

“I think so,” she whispers.

“Can’t they both be true?”

Hermione can’t breathe. All of her emotions and nerves and thoughts are running together until she can’t distinguish fact from fancy.

Just then, someone buzzes her flat.

“Pizza’s here,” she breathes. They were uncommonly fast—Hermione doesn’t know whether to be relieved or angry.

Slowly, agonizingly, Severus lets her slide down to stand on the floor. She’s worried he’ll be mad she hasn’t answered him, but he only seems disturbed at the loss of contact.

 “You’re still in your robes,” he says as she starts for the door.

“Oh.” She pauses, looking down at them. The buzzer sounds again.

“I’ll go.”

“But you’re also—”

In one swift movement, Severus wandlessly unbuttons his robes, sliding out of them to reveal a plain white shirt and dress slacks beneath.

“Not anymore,” he smirks.

“I thought a proper wizard didn’t wear clothing beneath his robes?”

“Who says I’m a proper wizard?” Severus asks. Then he leans over her and whispers, “Don’t go away.”

 The words hang in the air as he leaves the apartment to go downstairs to the front door.

While he’s gone, Hermione tries to compose herself. 

_Severus Snape just asked me TO MARRY HIM._ Remembering his hands on her thighs, she fans herself. Her knees go weak, and she leans against the wall. _Do I want to marry him? Do I even know him well enough for that? I haven’t even told him I love him._

She pauses a minute, letting the words wash over her. She hasn’t even considered it before now, but she knows it’s true. _I love him._

So much for composing herself.

  _He hasn’t told me he loves me._

At that moment, Severus walks back through the door carrying a pizza. The smell of warm bread and cheese and garlic fills the entryway. When he sees she’s still standing where he left her, he says, “Glad to know you can still follow instructions. That might come in useful later.”

Hermione blushes, making his eyes grow even darker. Then she pulls herself together and leads Severus back into the kitchen. He looks so sexy standing there in just a shirt and trousers—his broad shoulders and graceful body. Hermione purses her lips—graceful is definitely the word, but he’s hardened, too. Powerful. Hermione can’t think when she was ever this turned on.

“We . . . don’t have to eat right now,” she says.

Severus smirks and opens the box. “Yes, we do.”

“Why?” Hermione feels like a petulant child. She tries to hide it by twisting her mouth into what she hopes is a wry smile.

He laughs. “Because I’m going to have your answer to my question, or at least the promise of an answer, and while I’m waiting in agony for it, I want to eat the first pizza I’ve had in twenty years.”

“Twenty _years_?” Hermione laughs and then quickly sobers, remembering he’d said he hadn’t had _other things_ in a long time, either. Did he mean twenty years for those, too?

Severus smirks, guessing her thoughts (or reading them), and picks up his wine glass. “You’ll just have to find out,” he teases before taking a sip.

Hermione shakes her head—all the teasing is toying with her body. It jumps and starts every time he looks at her, threatens to melt whenever he speaks. How is she going to eat pizza? It seems so ordinary and plain now, not befitting a night with Severus Snape standing in her flat with a proposal.

Instead of standing there like a fool any longer, Hermione copies his casual demeanor and gets the plates. They take their pizza and wine into the living room where they sit knee-to-knee on the couch. Severus waves his hand, lighting a fire in the fireplace while turning out the room lights.

The pizza’s better than usual, but grasshoppers would probably taste better when shared with Severus Snape. They eat in silence while the tension between them ebbs and flows. Just as it becomes bearable, one of them will glance at the other, and the room heats up like the fire has got out of the grate.

“So . . .” says Severus, finishing his second slice. As confident as he was earlier, he seems to be proceeding more cautiously now. “I promised you an explanation.”

Hermione finishes her wine. “You did.”

“You left without letting me explain.”

She holds his gaze, hearing the gentle reprimand. “I did—I’m sorry.”

Severus waves away her apology, then seems to think better of it. “Thank you, but you wouldn’t have had to run away at all if I’d been upfront at the beginning.”

“I’ll agree with that.” Hermione smiles and winks. She drapes her arm over the back of the couch. 

Severus puts his arm on top of it, running his thumb along her upper arm. “I have spent my life pushing people away—I’m expert at it, in fact.”

Hermione holds her breath, waiting. 

“I’ll never really be good with people—I know this. And most of the time, I don’t want to be. But sometimes someone comes along to make me regret my solitary lifestyle. Someone I think I would like to know better, but I don’t always know how to make that happen. With you, I don’t really know how it happened except that being thrown together as we were made you impossible to ignore. I tried, rather feebly, to discourage you. Most of the time I thought you stayed out of pity or a misplaced sense of duty. But then I realized a bit too late that you wouldn’t have let me as close as you did simply because you felt sorry for me. Am I correct?”

Hermione smiles. “Yes. I’m glad you see it so I don’t have to keep beating you over the head with it.”

“And do you feel I’ve taken advantage of you—of your grief?”

“No, I’ve never felt that way.”

“Good.”

A pause.

“I didn’t exactly lie to you when we met: I _did_ lose my ability to Apparate after Nagini’s attack. But it came back on its own. All I saw that day we met was a lost woman, one who shouldn’t have been blundering around in the forest on her own. And maybe it will offend you, but you really didn’t seem right. Following me when you didn’t know who I was, even insisting on getting close enough to question me. I knew a Dark wizard was lurking about—you would have been a perfect catch for him. So I invented an excuse to stick around. I didn’t even know who you were, but I suspected you’d never let me stay unless you thought you were helping me. When I discovered you were Hermione Granger, I was even more determined.”

“Why?”

Severus snorts. “Go through all that trouble over the years to protect Potter and his friends, only to turn a blind eye when one of them tries to self-destruct?” He shoots her a look. “You must be mad to think I could do that.”

Hermione sits quietly, trying to digest it all. Part of her—the feminist side—is irritated that he felt obligated to help her. But the rest of her is grateful. He’s right, of course, she was about to self-destruct when she met him, and she didn’t even know it. “Maybe I reached out to you, Severus, because I subconsciously wanted someone to help _me_. Although I might never have admitted it before today. Thank you.”

“It’s surprising what our subconscious does to survive even when the rest of us is determined to end everything.”

He says this like he’s somewhere else, so Hermione waits for him to finish mulling over whatever’s on his mind.

Then he looks at her. “But I’m not telling you all this because I want your thanks, only to explain my actions. Because somewhere in all of that, I developed very real feelings for you, Hermione, and they weren’t related to my desire to protect you. Although I started feeling more strongly about that, too.”

Hermione nods, her heart beating into her throat. He’s waiting on her to pronounce judgment over all he’s told her. But she just wants to hold him and—disturbingly—cry into his chest.

Finally, she is able to control her emotions enough to say, “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we met again, Severus.”

“I’m not young anymore, Hermione. I don’t change easily. And there are some things about me that will never change, I suspect.”

“I’m not asking you to change.”

His eyes flash, and his hand grips her arm like he’s going to pull her to him. The tension builds again, like a river spilling over a dam. Soon the dam will burst.

“ _Will_ you marry me?” he asks again, softly.

Hermione slides closer, her hand coming up to his face to feel the day’s stubble on it. Then she runs her thumb over his lips, lips she wants to kiss, tonight and every night. Severus kisses her thumb, but his eyes don’t leave hers.

“Where would we live?” she asks.

“Wherever you want: here, Romania—hell, the Amazon would be fine if that’s what you wanted.”

“I think I want to stay here. I know that means more memories for you—”

“Stop acting like my memories are the only ones that matter here. If you want to make that an issue, I’ve had more time to deal with my memories than you have yours. We will be okay.”

When he says they’ll be okay, something clicks for Hermione, something buried deep in her psyche. Like she’s been waiting on him to say it, to reassure her that whatever demons they’ve dealt with in the past aren’t anything that can’t be overcome.

Hermione smiles. “Then yes, I will marry you.”

 

*****End Chapter*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look for the followup chapter later in the week!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I agonized over writing this chapter because it’s not my usual style. Anyway, it’s not very explicit, but I still think you could say it earns the “M” rating even though it’s mild. I’d rather err on the side of caution.
> 
> Let me know.

 

 

******Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN*****

_Hermione smiles. “Then yes, I will marry you.”_

Severus smiles back, pulling her in for a kiss. Hermione melts into him, her hands going to his chest, feeling the taut muscles beneath his linen shirt.

But Severus releases her, whispering, “You surprise me, Granger.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t ask about the dragon scale.”

Hermione runs her hands up his chest, wishing his shirt didn’t separate her from exploring the hard lines there. “Alright, I’ll ask now: Why did you have me chase down a dragon, Severus, if it wasn’t to restore your ability to Apparate?”

“The potion wasn’t for that, of course, it was supposed to enhance the effects of my Glamor Charm—to make it stronger.”

Hermione looks up. “What?”

“I wanted it to be permanent.”

“You wanted to look like Orev permanently? _Why?_ ”

“Why do you think? I’d never have to worry about being recognized again.”

“And now? How do you feel about it now?”

Severus frowns. “I don’t know.”

It’s a lot to take in. Hermione studies his expression, looking for a motive. “And . . . If it had worked . . .”

“No one would have been the wiser.”

“Even me?”

“I’m glad you found out who I was before I succeeded. I can say that much.”

“Good. Because I am, too.” Hermione can’t imagine how it would have complicated the situation to be in love with Orev without knowing his true identity. And she has no doubt she would have fallen in love with _him_ , too.

She stands, picking up their empty glasses for a refill. As she crosses in front of Severus, he grabs her wrist.

“No more wine,” he says. He’s giving her that look again. The dark, hungry, _I-want-to-snog-you-senseless_ look. Hermione doesn’t mind—she’d like to be snogged senseless. He tugs the glasses out of her hands and puts them back on the side table. Then he pulls her down onto his lap.

“I love you,” he says before kissing her.

He’s been holding back. It’s as if he needed to get that one more thing out in the open before the dam broke. Hermione moans as his tongue finds hers. He tastes of the wine and the pizza, a sexier combination than she’d ever imagined. They are quickly entangled in each other, Hermione lying back on the couch, Severus over her. He finds the top button of her robes and undoes it so he can kiss her collarbone.

Then he tastes her, his fingers searching for the next button. Then the next. His lips slide down her breastbone, following the line of skin he’s exposing. Hermione grabs his hair and wriggles beneath him, seeking to satisfy the ache building in her body.

She gasps as he pulls her robes up her legs, his fingers brushing her skin, creating electricity all along her body. Then his hot breath is on her stomach.

“I don’t think I can take much more teasing, Severus,” she breathes. “We’re getting married—there’ll be time for seduction later.”

He smirks and looks up at her, resting his chin on her stomach. His stubble tickles. “I don’t think anyone in the history of the world has looked forward to seduction after marriage.”

“Are you going to disappoint me in this, Severus?”

He slides up her body, making sure to kiss her a couple of times on the way up. When he’s even with her, he says, “You sure?”

“Consider me seduced.”

He looks around, analyzing their position. “On this tiny little couch?”

“At this point, I don’t care if it’s out in the hallway.”

His eyes grow darker, if that’s possible, and he raises an eyebrow. “In public? That has possibilities . . . I’ll remember that.” Then he frowns. “Anything I need to know?”

“Are you asking if I’m a virgin?”

He laughs. “I meant is there anything you don’t like?” Then his eyes widen. “But are you?”

Hermione pauses, letting the suspense hang in the air. Then she smirks and says, “No.”

Severus exhales and buries his head in her neck. “Too bad—I was so hopeful,” he says into it. He finds the tender spot beneath her ear and kisses it. Then he raises his head and smiles wickedly, but Hermione can see the relief in his eyes.

He kisses her again, and the next few seconds are spent shedding clothing and shifting on the couch. The glow from the fire casts enough light to prevent them from fumbling for each other in the dark. Severus watches Hermione as he thrusts inside her. She arches against him, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. 

“Okay?” he whispers, holding still.

“Yes,” she breathes, shifting beneath him. “ _Yes_.”

They find a rhythm, neither pressuring the other for anything other than a release of the tension that’s been building between them for months. Soon they’re both panting, their movements hurried, threatening to tip the couch. Hermione can tell Severus is close, but he’s waiting on her. He reaches up to thumb her nipple, teasing it. Then he pulls her leg up higher on his waist, and the new angle sends Hermione over the edge. She cries out, clenching around him as waves of pleasure roll over her, draining her of every other thought and feeling. Severus continues to thrust until she’s almost spent, then he follows in a harsh groan that rips through his throat. He tenses, then stills.

They lock eyes, both looking for breath, waiting for their hearts to slow. Severus hovers over Hermione, unwilling to break contact. He kisses her—a slow, gentle brush of the lips. 

“I love you,” she says.

Severus smirks. “And yet I notice how you waited to say it until after you’ve had your fill of me.”

“Who says I’ve had my _fill_?” she asks, smiling.

“Cheeky, Granger. Don’t start something you can’t finish. I’m not too old to keep up with you, you know—we’re just getting started.”

Hermione runs her palms up his hard chest, feeling the dusting of dark hair, a few thin scars. “I certainly hope so.”

..

.

..

The next morning, Hermione wakes in her own bed. Severus sleeps beside her, his breathing slow and steady. She needs to go to the bathroom, but they’re all tangled up in each other—moving will wake him. And she likes to watch him sleep, something she’s never allowed herself to do before.

He must sense her eyes on him, though, a long-formed habit from his days as a spy. With his eyes still closed, he smiles. “Ready for another round, Granger?” he asks. His morning voice is deeper than normal, sending sexy vibrations down Hermione’s body. He leans down and kisses her temple.

“Not just yet.” She shifts so she can look at him.

His smile has turned into a smirk. “Too tired? I tend to have that effect.”

Annoyed, Hermione pokes him in the ribs. He jerks away, catching her hand. Then he rolls over and pins her beneath him. “Careful,” he whispers. “I always rise to a good fight.”

“So do I.”

“Well then, future Mrs. Snape . . . hmmm . . . What do you think of that?”

Hermione frowns. “I think I still might like Granger. Will you have a problem with that?”

“Why would I have a problem? Especially since ‘Mrs. Snape’ reminds me of my mother, and that’s not a comparison I’m keen to make.”

“You didn’t like your mother?”

Severus sighs. “I didn’t know her well.” He pauses, looking at Hermione. The weight of their new commitment seems to press down on both of them. Hermione bites her lip. _Is he already regretting his proposal?_

“No,” he says firmly.

“Severus, you really can’t just get into my head all the time.”

He smiles apologetically. “I regret many things, Hermione, but not you. Believe me.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Hermione pulls him down for a kiss. “It was a moment of insecurity, not a moment of doubt.”

..

.

..

After bemoaning the lack of food in Hermione’s kitchen, they decide to go out for breakfast. Severus transfigures his white shirt and dress slacks into jeans and a sweater. He also decides to go out as Orev on the off-chance they run into someone they know. When Hermione is ready in her Muggle attire, they step out onto the landing. 

And run straight into George Weasley, standing on the stair below her door.

The redhead grips the railing until his knuckles turn white.  “Umm . . .” He looks at Hermione, then back to Orev. 

“George!” Hermione says. “What are you doing here? Have you met Orev?”

“Orev?” George licks his lips.

Hermione turns.

And sees Severus, who hadn’t finished his Glamour Charms. No wonder George is in shock.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I guess that game is up.”

Severus moves down past Hermione on the stair to stand in front of George. George’s face drains of all color.

“Do you have a problem with me, Weasley?” Severus asks, his voice gliding down into its silky, dangerous range.

“Uhhh. No? But what? I mean . . .” George glances at Hermione. “How?”

“He didn’t die, George.”

“I can see that,” he says weakly. “Did—did you know Orev was Severus Snape?”

“Yes. Well, not right away,”—Hermione smiles at Severus—“but for some time now.”

“Ah.”

There’s another moment of awkward silence. Hermione wishes she could diffuse the tension on the stairwell but realizes George has a right to be shocked. Severus looks like he might hex George for his inopportune appearance, but he also has a right to be uncomfortable.

So much for not being recognized.

Then George seems to find himself and plasters his most Weasley-ish grin on his face. “So Snape . . . You’re in Hermione’s flat. Isn’t it a bit early on a Sunday morning?”

Snape sneers. “You are here, too.”

“Yes, I wanted to see if Hermione was free for breakfast.”

“She has other plans.”

“Why don’t you join us, George?” Hermione asks, hoping Severus won’t mind too much. As much as she wants him to herself, if George runs off with the information he has right now, she’ll be righting things for a month.

Severus shoots her a look.

“Right,” George says, looking from Severus to Hermione. “Right. What’s for breakfast, then?”

They walk in silence to a Muggle cafe down the street, and Hermione takes Severus’s arm. George glances at her, his expression clearly one of confusion—and wonder. She shoots him a look which she hopes is reassuring.

When they reach the cafe, they slide into a booth—Hermione and Severus on one side, George on another. A server brings them coffee, they all order, and then stare at one another awkwardly.

Severus rests his arm on the booth behind Hermione while he takes a sip of coffee. George is quick to notice. To hide his curiosity, he gulps his own coffee and grimaces at the burn.

“Okay,” he says, breaking the silence. “ I can’t sit here in suspense any longer. How are you alive? I mean, there was a funeral for you and everything.” He fixes Severus with a shrewd stare.

“Was there?” Severus turns to Hermione.

“Yes,” she answers, “but we didn’t have a body. We thought Death Eaters had done something with it.”

“Everybody said really nice things about you, mate.”

Severus snorts.

The server brings their food and for the next few minutes, they are saved from any more awkwardness while they eat. Then, seeing Severus isn’t in a hurry to engage in conversation, Hermione tries to give George the major points about the last few months. How she met Severus, how he survived the War, how he hunted down the Dark wizard responsible for Ron’s death. She leaves out anything that has to do with their relationship.

At the news about Ron, George stares. “So you know . . .”

“Is that what you were coming to tell me this morning?” she asks.

He nods. “I have a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ with me. I didn’t want you to see it before someone got here.”

“Harry knows, too, and Ginny by now.”

George sniffs. “Does he? That’s good. Because I wasn’t going to interrupt them the morning after their wedding. But I didn’t think I’d interrupt you . . .” He looks again at how close she’s sitting to Severus and winks.

“George Weasley, be thankful we are in a Muggle cafe!”

George holds up his hands, laughing.

Ignoring George’s ribbing, Severus clears his throat and asks, “How’s Molly taking the news?”

George seems surprised that Severus would ask about his mum. “Oh—she’s a bit upset. Of course, we figured _Orev_ had something to do with it all, considering your sudden appearance. She’s been hoping to find him and thank him.”

“How did she know?”

“It’s in the _Prophet_. Does Shacklebolt know who really caught the murderer?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell anybody else?”

Severus gazes at Hermione a moment, then he says, “Yes. Soon.”

“And should I expect some kind of announcement?” George asks.

“Announcement?” Hermione asks with not a little panic. She and Severus haven’t even had time to talk about—

George gets up and digs around in his pocket for some Muggle money. “Oh come on, Hermione. How daft do you think I am?”

Severus looks at her and then says to George, “You might hear an announcement.”

“Uh huh. Thought so.” 

“Don’t tell anyone anything just yet, Weasley,” Severus says.

“Don’t worry about that. They’d pack me off to St. Mungo’s if I walked around proclaiming Severus Snape was alive, let alone . . .” George trails off then offers his hand to Severus. “So, mate, looks like I owe you an apology or two. And a thanks—for everything.”

Severus looks at George’s hand. Hermione rolls her eyes—Severus isn’t going to make reconciliation easy. Then he surprises both of them by taking George’s hand and shaking it.

With a nod, George leaves the cafe, leaving Severus and Hermione to finish their breakfast.

And decide what to do next.

******End Chapter******

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’d you think?


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I have an apology to make for keeping this chapter so long. Life kind of got in the way. But it looks like there will be one more after this. I’ll do my best to be quicker with it—Promise!
> 
> THANKS again to all my wonderful readers. I’ve truly enjoyed writing for you!

*****Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT*****

After tossing the idea back and forth all day, Hermione and Severus decide to go speak to the Weasleys that evening. Hermione Floos ahead of time and asks if they have a few minutes. Arthur greets her. He looks tired, and after the bustle of the wedding the Burrow is strangely quiet. Probably everyone is still digesting the news from that morning—the news Ron’s killer will be brought to justice.

“Of course, Hermione,” Arthurs answers. “You’re always welcome—you don’t ever have to ask.”

“Ah. Well . . .” Hermione begins. “I’m bringing a friend, well more than a friend actually, and he might be quite of a shock so you and Molly should probably sit down while we Floo over. And maybe you should make some tea now so you don’t have to later because—”

“Hermione,” Arthur says. “Unless it’s bad news, just come on over and be done with it.” He shakes his head and smiles. “And if it is bad news, come on over anyway.”

Hermione’s grateful he’s stopped her stammering. When she pulls her head out of her fireplace, Severus is standing next to her with an amused smirk on his face.

“Did you just tell them to go make tea now for the shock?” he asks.

Hermione smiles. “I just want them to be prepared.”

“Yes, because I’m sure your babbling has put them completely at ease. They can’t possibly be over there worrying about what news you’re going to drop.”

“Alright alright.” Hermione tries to sound irritated, but their relationship is still to new for her to be upset at him.

She steps through first, landing on the Burrow’s hearth a moment before Severus. Just enough time to register the crowd. Despite her warning, no fewer than five Weasleys are _standing_ in the living room—Arthur and Molly, Bill and Fleur, and Charlie. Hermione barely has time to feel guilty for the worried look on their faces when all five of them gasp.

Hermione turns to Severus who is standing just behind her. He steps out into the room, dark and intimidating, but also stiff and obviously unsure of the welcome he is about to receive.

Arthur turns white, and Molly sinks onto the back of a chair, grappling to support herself. The others all have dumbfounded looks on their faces. 

Bill is the first one to gather his wits. “Well that explains it,” he says.

“What?” asks Hermione.

“George refused to talk to me this morning when I stopped by the shop. Avoided me like I was a Crumpled-Horned Snorkack. He knows, doesn’t he?”

Severus gives a curt nod and then looks at Arthur.

“Severus,” Arthur begins. Then he gathers himself and strides over to Severus and Hermione. But he addresses Hermione: “I’m assuming you wouldn’t be bringing him here unless you were sure?”

“Yes, Arthur.” Realizing Severus hasn’t said a word, she elbows him. 

He clears his throat and offers his hand to Arthur. “I’m afraid I’ve given you a shock. I can prove my identity if you feel the need. Shacklebolt already knows.”

Arthur looks at Severus’s hand, grips it with his own, then pulls the younger man into a hug. At this, Molly begins crying and rushes over. Severus awkwardly pats Arthur on the back, obviously hoping he’ll let go. But as soon as he does, Molly grabs him and wraps her arms around his middle. Severus shoots Hermione a look that clearly means _help_ , but Hermione is crying too and hugs Arthur.

And now everyone is talking at once, wanting to know the details. It’s some minutes before they quiet down enough to actually listen. Once Severus realizes he isn’t expected to hug anyone else—or perhaps _because_ of all the physical affection—he adopts his usual brusque manner and explains the situation in as few words as possible. This approach only earns him more questions, so while Hermione makes tea, everyone else settles around the table and makes him start over from the beginning.

The conversation doesn’t take a turn toward Hermione’s relationship with Severus until after midnight. The family is sleepy. Heads nod. The quiet seems ready to take over. Molly has been crying off and on throughout the evening, but she’s calmer now. The only evidence of her emotion is her puffy cheeks and eyes.

“What I don’t understand,” she asks, “is why you left Romania, Hermione. Didn’t you find Severus there?”

“Yes,” Hermione answers, looking at Severus sitting across from her.

“Did the shock of discovering who he was send you back?”

“Umm. No. I knew who he was a few weeks before I came back. We . . . Uh . . . Had a row, and I came back in a fit of temper.”

“I’m afraid I drove her to it,” Severus says. “I wasn’t quite upfront with her about everything in the beginning. Which brings us to one more thing.” Severus gazes at Hermione across the table, the love in his eyes unmistakeable. 

Everyone around the table perks up, looking from one to the other. Hermione braces herself for their announcement; she’s not sure why it scares her. Severus is about to make their relationship public, about to declare his love for her in front of the people she holds most dear.

And she doesn’t want him to do it. Not yet.

Hermione straightens in her seat, ready to stop him. But she’s too late. He’s already speaking . . .

“. . . apologize for interrupting the wedding with such unpleasant business,” he’s saying, giving Hermione a puzzled look. “I thought it best to get the wizard into custody before anything else happened.”

All around, everyone looks confused, like they know Severus was about to say something else. Then Arthur directs the conversation to the new wardens at Azkaban, and no one has time to change the subject. Molly watches Hermione who squirms just a little under her gaze. Molly was almost Hermione’s mother-in-law, and Hermione wonders if she’ll resent Hermione for finding someone else.

But she has little time to ponder the question before she sees Severus glancing at her as he converses with Arthur and Bill. He must have used Legilimency just before he spoke. Which means he saw her hesitation. Hermione mentally kicks herself for her cowardice. Because that’s what it was—a moment of fear. Fear that the Weasleys wouldn’t be accepting, that they wouldn’t understand. At the same time, she knows it’s ridiculous. The Weasleys will understand better than most. Hermione tries to open her mind to Severus, to let him know the reason behind her hesitation, but she can’t be sure he understands. She’s desperate; the thought of another misunderstanding scares her worse than the Weasleys.

So just as Arthur is filling in Severus on the state of the Wizengamot, Hermione jumps up from her seat, shocking the table into silence.

“I have something to say.”

All eyes are on her.

Now or never.

She looks at Severus and, seeing the look of amused shock on his face, smiles. “Severus and I are engaged.”

Declaring her engagement to Severus Snape stuns the Weasleys as if she’s cast a Body-Bind curse on all of them. The silence could not be more silent. Even the clock has stopped ticking.

“Somebody say something,” she breathes.

Molly stands up and makes her way over to Severus’s seat. He looks at her warily, probably wondering where her wand is and what hex she’s planning on using. Instead, Molly leans down and wraps her arms around Severus’s shoulders, hugging him once again and whispering, “Then that means you’ll be part of the family, won’t you?”

And she starts crying again.

 


	29. Chapter 29

“Severus?”

“Hmm?”

They’re curled up together on the couch in front of Hermione’s fire.

“How do you think Harry’s going to react?”

Severus snorts. “Like he always does, I imagine, with a lot of shouting and a fit of temper.”

“I’m not so sure, actually.”

“Then why’d you ask? You know him better than I.” He squeezes Hermione closer and kisses the top of her head. “Worried?”

“A little. I was thinking about something else, though.”

“What’s that?”

Hermione takes a deep breath, nervous about what she’s about to say. “Why don’t we get married right now?”

He smirks. “Tonight?”

“This week.”

“Before Potter gets back,” he says with hint of accusation.

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s not about him. I know it seems like it after what I just said, but I’ve given it a lot of thought and I don’t see why we should wait.”

Severus stills, his breathing even but his mind obviously working.

Hermione sits up to look him in the face. “Bad idea?”

He meets her eyes. “No, not bad. Just…”

“What?”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

She smiles. “Absolutely.”

“What about at the Weasleys’ yesterday?” Severus hadn’t mentioned her hesitation before, but she knew he would eventually get around to it.

“I didn’t doubt you. I was just afraid of hurting the Weasleys’ feelings.”

“And what changed your mind?”

“You—I didn’t want you to think I was getting cold feet.”

He pulls Hermione in to kiss her. “If you are, it wouldn’t change how I feel about you. You don’t have to marry me this week to prove it, Wren.”

Hermione returns his kiss, and they spend a few minutes without speaking, until they’re both breathless and wanting more. Finally, she pulls away from Severus and grins. “If you promise to always kiss me like that, Orev, I _will_ marry you tonight.”

Severus stares back at her, holding her gaze with a fire she’s never seen in him before. It excites her, and scares her a little—in a good way.

“I promise,” he finally whispers. Then he stands and pulls Hermione with him. When he takes her by the hand and turns, she assumes he’s headed for the bedroom. Instead, they walk right by it to her door.

At her puzzled look, Severus smirks. “Did you want to get married tonight, or not?”

In answer, Hermione smiles and summons their cloaks. As soon as they’re clear of her door, Severus puts his arm around her waist. She doesn’t care where they’re going to get married, only that he is hers.

Eighteen months ago, Hermione didn’t know how she was going to go on living. But as she feels the tug of magic as Severus Disapparates, Hermione realizes she needn’t have worried.

Life has too much left for her, and she isn’t ready to give up on it. 

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you feel like I left a few loose ends, I have a sequel planned. But I won't begin posting it until I have it finished or almost finished. Not Yet was my first attempt at a serial, and while I enjoyed writing it, I personally want to commit to a more consistent posting schedule.


End file.
